


Sentiment

by SaraHerbertWatson



Series: Hungerlock [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 74th Hunger Games, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Asexual Sherlock, Asexual Sherlock Holmes/Heterosexual John Watson, District 12, Gen, Humor, M/M, Mycroft Feels, Sadness, friendships, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2016-08-06
Packaged: 2018-03-05 06:48:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 36
Words: 108,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaraHerbertWatson/pseuds/SaraHerbertWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight years after Mycroft Holmes wins the Hunger Games and becomes the first victor of District Twelve, childhood friends John Watson and Sherlock Holmes' lives are about to be changed forever, again: John Watson gets Reaped into the 74th Hunger Games. But John doesn't know how Sherlock feels - Sherlock doesn't want John to die without knowing he's loved - so, better late than never. Faced up against Careers Irene Adler, Sebastian Moran, and Jim Moriarty, John has to fight to survive to get back to Sherlock - but can he? Does he even want to?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Part i

John Watson met Sherlock Holmes when he was ten years old – it was hard not to, when one’s brother was a tribute in the Hunger Games.

The day after the reaping ceremony was an errand day for the Watson family. While John’s father was working in the coal mines of District 12, John’s mother woke John and his seven-year-old sister, Harry, up early in the morning to get dressed and accompany her to the shops of the District to get what they could afford.

Every year after a reaping (even though John and Harry were too young to be chosen as tributes), Mrs. Watson would treat her children with a loaf of cinnamon bread to distract them from the fact that two kids were being sent to die and that, in a few years, they would be eligible for the same fate. This year was no exception, so outside the fruits shop she gave John money to pay for a loaf of cinnamon bread and a loaf of white bread, and sent her children to the bakery next door.

John and Harry went inside the shop and got in line behind a boy about John’s age as he approached the desk. The baker looked down at the boy sympathetically.

“Could I possibly be allowed a roll?” the boy asked, and John realized he recognized the voice to be Sherlock Holmes, a boy from his school. He almost didn’t recognize him out of his school uniform – even though it was summertime, the boy wore an oversized grey hoodie over what John assumed to be a T-shirt and shorts, going by the fact that said shorts were poking out from under the hoodie.

The two boys had never spoken – there was really no excuse to. John was a year older than Sherlock; they had no mutual friends (or friends at all, from what he knew about Sherlock). The two boys weren’t even neighbors; the Holmes family lived in the heart of the Seam – the poorest part of the District – while the Watsons lived closer to town. But John did know of Sherlock – everyone knew of Sherlock, for he wasn’t one of the kindest people. But nothing could keep a wave of sympathy from washing over John. Sherlock’s brother, Mycroft, had been reaped into the Hunger Games – basically sentenced to die – just the day before.

The baker gave Sherlock the roll and he left, not even glancing at John and Harry as he went. John, feeling compelled to talk to the boy, quickly ordered the loaves of bread and gave them to Harry after receiving them.

“Go find mom and tell her I’ll be there in a minute – I’ll just be talking to someone from school,” John ordered as they left the shop.

“Okay,” Harry said, and they went their separate ways; Harry into the fruits shop, and John chasing after Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” John called as he ran down the street, but the boy didn’t acknowledge John’s presence until they were walking side-by-side. “Hey, Sherlock – I’m John – I’ve seen you around at school –”

“Whatever you have to say I don’t want to hear it,” Sherlock spat, glaring at the ground ahead of him.

“Your brother’s in The Games now, isn’t he?” John asked, getting to the point.

 _“Yes_ ,” he snapped. “Next time I need Captain Obvious around to remind me of my life story you’ll be the first one I call, now leave me alone –”

“Are you okay?” John asked, cutting Sherlock off.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock spat.

“No you’re not – your brother’s in the Hunger Games –” John argued.

“Then why did you ask the question?” Sherlock asked, finally stopping and turning to glare up at John (Sherlock was about five inches shorter than him) with eyes red and tired from crying.

“Because it’s nice to at least _ask,”_ John replied.

Sherlock glanced away from John, looking for a more private place to talk. Once he found it, he grabbed John by the wrist and led him into an alley between two shops and started speaking.

“I don’t need your pity,” he told John. “I need _theirs_ –”

“Whose?” John asked.

“The merchants,” Sherlock clarified, nodding in the direction of the world outside the alley. “As you keep reminding me, my brother’s in the Hunger Games – their sympathy for me is still prominent and the reasons why are still fresh in their memories. If I go in to every store and ask for just one of their cheaper items, they’ll feel bad and give it to me free of charge, which, if I ration it out enough, _should_ give me enough food to survive on my own with until –” Sherlock cut himself off, avoiding John’s eyes. “I should be fine, if Mycroft comes back...” he said in a quiet voice, finally sounding like the little boy he was.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine –” John started, but Sherlock cut him off, rolling his eyes as he went back to speaking quickly, taking on the know-it-all tone he had been using just seconds before.

“Empty promises. Dull,” he said, waving him off and crossing his arms. He was right, though – there weren’t any victors in District 12 to speak of. “Anyway, if he doesn’t come back, I’ll have to make the food stretch long enough to think of a plan to keep me out of the community home –”

“The community home?” John asked, startled. “Wait, what about your mother?”

Everyone knew about the mine explosion that had killed Mr. Holmes, along with about thirty other mine workers, five years ago. John had only been five years old, but all of the eldest children of the deceased coal miners were given a Medal of Valor at a ceremony honoring the losses, including an eleven-year-old Mycroft Holmes. Even though John – and everyone in their classes – was too young to remember the details of the explosion or the ceremony, everyone always knew the one fact that mattered to them: Sherlock Holmes didn’t have a father.

“She’s dead.” Sherlock informed him.

“She’s dead?”

Sherlock huffed out a breath. “You’re kind of slow, did you know that?” he asked, frustrated. “Yes, she’s dead. She...” tears welled up in his eyes. “...She died yesterday. She was murdered. Just before Mycroft left.”

“Oh, god,” John breathed. “Have you told anyone?”

“Of course I have; I got Peacekeeper Cray to take her away.”

“Do you have any other siblings? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? Grandparents?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied. “My parents were both only children, everyone knows that just about everyone either starves or dies of some other natural cause before reaching the age to even _become_ a grandparent, and Mycroft’s the only sibling I have.”

“Then – it’s just you, isn’t it?” John thought aloud.

“Obviously. So?”

“That – that can’t be right. You’re all alone –”

“Alone protects me,” Sherlock informed John.

“Protects you? No – people protect people; friends protect people –” John tried, but Sherlock cut him off again.

“I don’t have  _friends,_ ” Sherlock spat, his eyes not breaking from John’s. “You and I both know that.”

John did know this; anyone who had even heard the name Sherlock Holmes knew that Sherlock didn’t have friends, and everyone knew the reasons why. First and foremost, he was a bit of a loud-mouthed know-it-all. He was constantly arguing with their teachers, insulting his peers, and generally offending everyone in his path by calling them stupid or by revealing their deepest secrets that he couldn’t possibly know to everyone within earshot. It seemed like every day Sherlock had to stay after school for detention, and, though John was never a witness to this personally, it was obvious that some of the boys would corner Sherlock when he finally got out and left him to walk home alone bruised, bloody, and beaten, with another detention slip pinned to his shirt, to repeat the cycle all over again. Needless to say, Sherlock was right: he didn’t have friends.

“But you can’t just live alone for who knows how long – you’re nine years old, Sherlock,” John reminded him.

“Well, I’m going to try. We both know I won’t last a day in the community home.”

And it was true. The community home was a large building in the Seam, where orphans whose parents had died from something or other were made to live until they turned eighteen and could work and get a house of their own. John, having both parents alive and well, had never set foot in the place, but he knew of some of the kids who had to live there, and most of those kids were the exact people who beat Sherlock up after school. Not only that, but some of the kids of the community home came into school with bruises, which either meant that the adults in charge turned a blind eye to the kids fighting each other, or they inflicted the wounds themselves, or both. But no matter what it was, it wouldn’t matter: if Sherlock was sent to live in the community home, alone in the dark with the boys who hated him most, he’d probably be dead by morning.

John huffed out a breath, and Sherlock looked outside of the alley, waiting for John to speak.

“Look, I know we don’t know each other that well, but –”

“You may not know me, but I know all about you, John Watson,” Sherlock assured him, and John’s eyes widened in surprise. They had never spoken – they had only seen each other from a distance before, now; across the lunch hall, across the school yard, passing in the hallway – how did Sherlock know _John’s_ name? “You want to be a doctor when you grow up, you seem to have a crush on every girl in class but you like Hillary the most, and you have a brother named Harry.”

“How –” John began to ask.

“‘How did I know?’ I didn’t know; I saw. Let’s take it from the top: I can read that you want to be a doctor in your hands and the fact that every time we visit the library you’re the one taking out medical books instead of any sort of novel – that’s a bit obvious, to be honest.”

“My hands?” John repeated. In response, Sherlock took hold of John’s hand and surveyed it between them.

“Extremely steady – almost too steady for a ten-year-old’s, don’t you think? Steady, accurate, doctor. You’re a little too empathetic, though, which could hurt you in a place where you see people injured and die almost daily. Now, for your crushes. Believe it or not, you look at every girl in your class the same way when you’re crushing on them. Over the years, I’ve noticed how many girls you look at like that, so it’s only safe to assume you’re kind of a womanizer, as much of a womanizer as a ten-year-old can be. As for Hillary –”

“Haleigh,” John said, cutting Sherlock off.

“What?”

“It’s Haleigh – there isn’t a Hillary in my class.”

“Right – but it’s obvious that you like her considering the fact that she’s the only girl in your class that you don’t talk to.”

“What if I just don’t like her?” John asked, crossing his arms.

“Given your history with liking girls? It’s more likely that you’ve tried and failed pursuing a relationship with her. But, considering how much you stare at her from a distance it’s even more likely that you’re just afraid to talk to her and to get rejected given the fact that you have a gigantic crush on her. Not to mention the fact that just corrected me about her name – if you didn’t care about her you probably wouldn’t have made a point to say something about the fact that I got it wrong.”

“...Okay, fine, I’ll give you that. But what about Harry?”

“That one’s simple: sometimes your mother makes the mistake of writing Harry’s name on both of your lunch bags and crosses it out – poorly, I might add,” Sherlock said.

“You pay attention to all this stuff?” John asked.

“I observe everyone. For instance, there’s a boy in your class, his name is Samuel?”

“Who?” John asked, and Sherlock stared at John for a moment.

“...His name’s not Samuel, is it?”

“Are you talking about Skylar Dean?”

“Yes – him – he burns things for fun behind his parents’ backs. The cuff of his sleeve is slightly burnt; I’m surprised they haven’t noticed it, yet,” he replied before John could ask how he could possibly know that. “Did I get anything wrong about you, by the way?”

“What?”

“Did I get anything wrong about you?”

“Um...well, I do want to be a doctor when I grow up – always have. I do have a crush on Haleigh, and I do have a bit of a crush on some of the other girls in my class. And Harry’s my –”

“Wow, spot on, then –” Sherlock began.

“– sister,” John finished.

“Sister?” Sherlock repeated.

“Yes. Harry’s short for Harriet.”

 _“Sister!”_  Sherlock cried out. “Of course! There’s always something…” he paused. “She was the one in the shop with you, wasn’t she?” he asked. “The little redhead?”

“She was,” John replied.

“Of course…”

“You did really good though – that was...brilliant,” John informed him.

“Really?” Sherlock asked, confused. No one had found his deductions brilliant before – people normally found it (and therefore, him) annoying.

“Really – that was fantastic,” John assured him with a smile. “Anyway, speaking of my sister, I should really go back to her…”

“So, shall I run by my house and gather my things, then?”

“Things?” John asked.

“You know; clothes, toiletries? My family’s tesserae? If I’m going to live with you I should gather my things, shouldn’t I?” Sherlock asked.

“Who said anything about living together?” John asked.

“I did. You went out of your way to chase me down and see how I was doing; you obviously want to help me.”

“Well, yeah,” John said. “But I don’t know if my mom would think that’s okay.”

“She probably will. Let’s go,” Sherlock said, and together they went back to the fruits shop and found Mrs. Watson and Harry.

“John! There you are!” John’s mother cried. “I wondered where you ran off to. And who’s this?” she asked, addressing Sherlock.

“This is Sherlock Holmes; he’s in the class under mine,” John said as Mrs. Watson nodded.

“Oh, …oh. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson said to him, sympathetically.

“Can Sherlock come over to our house for a few hours?” John asked.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” Mrs. Watson replied as Harry realized where she had heard of the Holmes family.

“Didn’t your brother leave for The Games yesterday?” she asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied bluntly.

“Harry,” Mrs. Watson warned.

“Rude shmoode! Do you think he’ll win the –” she began, but John’s mother cut her off.

“Harriet!”

_“Fine!”_

* * *

When they finished running errands, they went to the Watson household. There were a grand total of four rooms – two bedrooms, a bathroom, and the kitchen, which also held a small sofa and a television to watch the Hunger Games with. There, Sherlock met John’s father, and spent the day with John’s family.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your brother, dear,” Mrs. Watson said as she cooked dinner for her family. “I just heard about your mother today, too – how are you doing?” she asked.

“Better than I was, I think,” Sherlock answered, careful to be polite. “I mean, people get murdered all the time –”

“Murdered?” Mr. Watson repeated.

“Yeah – Sherlock’s mom was killed after the reaping ceremony,” John filled him in. Mr. and Mrs. Watson exchanged looks.

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Watson agreed.

“I’m sure I’ll find the killer by the end of the Games this year,” Sherlock assured them.

“I think you should worry about Mycroft before you try to solve a murder, Sherlock. The Hunger Games is a big deal, after all,” Mrs. Watson reminded him.

“I hate them – they’re ridiculous,” Sherlock announced. John nodded, but as he looked around and saw his parents’ tight-lipped faces, he knew that wasn’t the best thing to say.

“Do you know who you’ll be living with during the Games, Sherlock?” Mrs. Watson asked, changing the subject.

“Probably down at the community home,” Mr. Watson said.

“Well, actually....–” Sherlock looked at John for help.

“Mom, Dad... Can Sherlock live with us? Please please please?” John asked. “All his bullies live in the community home and I’m his only friend at school and he’s got nowhere else to go and –” As John went on, Mr. and Mrs. Watson looked at each other, astounded at their son’s request. They did the thing that parents do and had a private conversation using facial expressions exclusively as John finished his begging. “He won’t be in the way at all, Mom. He’s got his own tesserae, and he’s got Mycroft’s and his mom’s to share with us, too. He _needs_ this. Please?”

John’s mother sighed.

“John, sweetie...” she began, and John and Sherlock shrunk into their chairs, knowing the decision was made. “We can’t afford to make a snap decision like this – especially one that could very easily become a permanent change.”

“But Mom –” John began.

“Give us some time to think about this,” Mr. Watson allowed. “We’re not giving you a no, we’re giving you a maybe. Can you two survive on that for a night?” he asked, and the two boys nodded.

“Good. Now John, can you be a dear and get your sister? Dinner’s almost ready. Will you be joining us, Sherlock?”

“Yes, please.”

Mr. and Mrs. Watson allowed John to sleep over at Sherlock’s that night. Sherlock’s house was nothing more than a one-room shack with an outdoor bathroom. The only thing the house possessed was a stove for cooking, a small circular table with three chairs, a tiny black-and-white television for the Hunger Games viewings, three beds, and curtains separating the beds from the rest of the house. On the table were three sacks of grain, and three cans of oil – the Holmes family’s tesserae.

“Mycroft’s name was in the bowl twenty times.” Sherlock informed John, suddenly, and then gestured to the tesserae on the table. “Whatever isn’t mine you can have. I know it’s not enough, but it’s still a lot, I think.”

“Do you think they’ll let you live with us?” John asked. “My parents?”

“Yes, obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“Your mother’s too caring of a person to just let me live on my own,” Sherlock informed him, and John nodded in agreement.

Sherlock and John watched the reaping ceremonies together, that night. Sherlock took mental notes of all the tributes and pointed out the more obvious observations to John, up until Mycroft, the last person to be reaped, appeared on screen.

“That’s him,” Sherlock breathed. “John – that’s Mycroft.”

John never imagined meeting someone this way – on a recording of the Hunger Games. As soon as the ceremonies were over, the projector turned itself off and Sherlock opened the curtains to the bedroom and then proceeded to fling himself into his mother’s bed.

“You can have mine,” he informed him, and John nodded and got into Sherlock’s bed.

“Were you able to talk to him? Before he left?” John asked, after a moment.

* * *

Of course Sherlock had spoken to Mycroft before he left. Peacekeepers allowed the family and friends a short visit to the newly-reaped tributes – Sherlock was allowed three minutes.

He ran in and buried his face into Mycroft’s torso, tears streaming down his face. Mycroft ran his fingers through Sherlock’s dark curls, shushing him as he looked at the doors, expecting his mother to come in.

“Sherlock – where’s Mom?” Mycroft asked.

“I dunno.” Sherlock’s voice was muffled by Mycroft’s shirt. Mycroft crouched down before him.

“Go home. Go to Mom. Tell her I’ll be back.”

“But –” Sherlock began.

“No. No, Sherlock, look at me. I’m going to win this. For you and for Mom. I’ll come back. I promise, okay?”

“O-okay,” Sherlock sniffled.

“Look after yourself. Look after Mom. Don’t be too much of a bother, okay?” he tried to chuckle, but tears only spilled over his eyes. “I love you, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes?”

“D-Don’t die, okay?” Sherlock asked, his voice breaking.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft promised, and kissed his brother’s forehead. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his brother once more, and then the Peacekeepers came in their white jumpsuits to drag Sherlock away.

Sherlock ran home to his mother.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mycroft’s leaving you’ve gotta go say goodbye –” he yelled through his tears as he opened the door and found Mrs. Holmes in a puddle of blood, a knife in her hand.

Sherlock Holmes screamed.

* * *

“Sherlock?” John repeated. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied.

“What did he say to you, then? Mycroft?”

“He said that he’ll come back.” They laid for a moment, taking in the circumstances they found themselves under. “Hey, John?”

“Yeah?”

“Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end – would that bother you?” Sherlock asked. “Potential housemates should know the worst about each other.”

“That’s fine – it’s all fine,” John assured him. “Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Can I ask you something? About the Games?”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

“I don’t mean to sound mean but...do you really think Mycroft could win?”

“Yeah. Mycroft has a really small chance of winning,” Sherlock revealed.

“Really?” John sat up, finding that Sherlock was curled up, facing the wall.

“Don’t feel bad. Half of them have no chance at all,” he deadpanned. “Goodnight, John.”

“Do you want to talk about –”

“No.”

The next morning, Sherlock and John went back to the Watson household, where Mr. and Mrs. Watson made the announcement: Sherlock would be living with them until further notice. Sherlock knew that “further notice” meant “forever unless a miracle occurs,” but it didn’t matter. He knew that alone protected him and it wasn’t good to form a friendship with someone who could easily be reaped or see him reaped in a few years, but it didn’t matter.

For now, Sherlock Holmes was a Watson.


	2. Prologue - Part ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for the support of the first chapter; next chapter will be posted the 31st of January!

Over the course of the next three weeks, Sherlock and John became best friends. Even though they were roommates and Sherlock Holmes was the less-than-ideal person to share a room with, they both respected each other enough to know not to bother Sherlock when he was in his “mind palace,” and Sherlock knew not to throw things at John when he got frustrated at Mycroft’s situation and accept any help John offered. The Hunger Games time became Shut Up time, especially when Mycroft was on screen.

Everyone watched as Sherlock calculated and recalculated Mycroft’s odds of winning from the time the tributes were introduced on their chariots and in their interviews to the moment Mycroft was dropped into the Arena to the moment he was seconds away from the end of his battle.

Mycroft found out that his mother was dead on national television.

During his interview, the interviewer, Caesar Flickerman, asked Mycroft how he felt to be part of the Games.

“May I be honest with you, Mr. Flickerman?” Mycroft asked.

“Why yes, of course!” Caesar replied.

“I’m terrified,” Mycroft admitted, and the crowd erupted into cheers and laughter. Though his fear was real, he smiled with them, as if it was a joke. “But in all seriousness,” he said as the crowd died down. “I’m meeting these tributes at the same time as you all. The tributes are already forming alliances and as I look around at these young, strong, intelligent people who maybe, in another life, I could see as my friends, I have to remind myself that all lives end. I have to remind myself that all hearts are broken, and caring is not an advantage.”

“All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage,” Caesar echoed. “That is a nice phrase – very true, Mycroft, very true.”

“Yes, indeed,” Mycroft agreed. “But is it entirely?”

“Is it?” Caesar asked.

“This is what I’ve been beginning to question. I have a brother and a mother to come home to. I know I may not be the strongest or the most skilled or the most popular, but I do firmly believe that I am going to win this, for them. This makes me wonder if caring is more of an advantage than I thought it could be. The careers were trained for the Games – this is what they do. But I’ve found that love is also a vicious motivator.”

“Another beautiful phrase, Mycroft. Tell me,  _where_  do you think of these things?”

“If I told you, I’d probably be lying. I honestly have no idea,” Mycroft said, and the crowd laughed again.

“Now, you mentioned you had a brother, Mycroft. What’s his name? How old is he?” Caesar asked.

“Sherlock is nine,” Mycroft replied.

“Such a bright young age,” Caesar said.

“Indeed. I’m so worried about him – I worry about him constantly, even when I was home,” Mycroft revealed. “And I miss him, dearly. My mother, as well.”

“Tell us about your mother, Mycroft,” Caesar pressed.

At the Watsons’, Mrs. Watson looked at Sherlock, who was sat on the floor before the screen, between John and Harry.

“Sherlock? Does your brother know?”

“No,” Sherlock replied, and Mrs. Watson knew that’s the best answer she would get out of him until the end of the broadcast.

“I honestly don’t know how she does it,” Mycroft informed Caesar, chuckling. “We’ve been such a handful to take care of, Sherlock especially. Our father died in the mines a few years ago – it’s just been her and us since then. She’s an amazing mother. I can’t wait to see her again,” he finished, looking up at Caesar, who was looking back at Mycroft with solemn eyes.

“Well, Mycroft, unfortunately, you won’t see your mother again,” Caesar informed him.

Mycroft’s face fell and his eyes narrowed, puzzled.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“Mycroft, I’m so sorry to say this, but we’ve gotten word from Peacekeeper officials down in District Twelve that your mother has passed away,” Caesar broke it to him, and the crowd was suddenly dead silent as Mycroft gaped at him.

“Oh – oh god. How? How could this happen?” he asked, refraining from putting his head in his hands and smudging the make-up that was applied for the interview.

“Mrs. Holmes took her own life, very shortly after your name was drawn at the reaping ceremony.”

“Wrong,” Sherlock announced quietly.

“Your brother found her,” Caesar continued.

“Oh, sweetie,” Mrs. Watson whispered. Sherlock was unsure if she was talking about him or his brother.

“Oh god...oh god...” Mycroft whispered, trying not to cry in front of the nation of Panem.

“This must be a terrible time for you, Mycroft, but think of your brother. Poor, nine-year-old Sherlock. What would you say to him?”

Mycroft chose a camera to look into, and the broadcast adjusted itself to make it so Mycroft was looking directly at Sherlock from hundreds of miles away.

“Sherlock... I’m coming back. I promise you – I’m going to win this for you. You won’t be alone for long – please don’t worry. Take care of yourself – just worry about that, Sherlock. Worry about yourself – no one else, not even me. I’m  _going_  to come back, I have no doubt about it. I love you, little brother. With all my heart,” he told Sherlock. As he spoke, Sherlock found himself standing up, so Mycroft could stare directly into Sherlock’s eyes.

“You seem to be a little over-confident, Mycroft. Do you think that’s going to hurt you in the Games?” Caesar asked, and the cameras went back to showing both of them, and Sherlock slowly sat back down, eyes fixed on the screen. John put a comforting arm around him.

“No, Mr. Flickerman. That’s not over-confidence, I assure you,” Mycroft said.

“What is it, then?”

“Desperation,” Mycroft and Sherlock spoke at the same time.

“I need to win,” Mycroft went on. “I have to, for Sherlock. There is no other option – I have to live and breathe and fight as hard as I can for him, until I’m home and safe with him in District Twelve. That’s it. End of discussion.”

“Well, then, I wish you the best of luck, Mycroft Holmes,” Caesar said, and wrapped up the interview.

As soon as Mycroft began to walk off the stage, Mr. Watson began to speak to Sherlock.

“Sherlock? What did you mean when you said ‘wrong,’ earlier?” he asked.

“They were wrong – Mummy was killed – I know she was!” Sherlock announced, turning around.

“How do you know, sweetie?” Mrs. Watson asked.

There was a moment as Sherlock thought about what proof he had that his mother was killed by someone who wasn’t herself, and realized that he had none. He glanced over at the screen to find Mycroft was off the stage but Caesar was still talking about him.

“Shh!” Sherlock shushed everyone, though no one was speaking.

“All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, but love is a vicious motivator. Such elegant words coming from such an intelligent tribute. But is that intelligence going to win him the title of Hunger Games victor for his brother?” Caesar smiled. “We’ll be sure to find out, won’t we?” The crowd cheered, as Caesar continued to speak over them. “Keep an eye on that one, that’s for sure! That’s all the tributes we have for you! Happy Hunger Games, and have a good night!” he exclaimed, and the projection switched off.

The next day, Mrs. Watson took Sherlock on a walk, and when they returned, Sherlock knew the truth: that his mother had taken her own life.

The Arena that year was a frozen wasteland – every inch of the Arena was covered in at least three feet of snow, and all of the water sources were covered by a one-foot-thick coating of ice. Mycroft teamed up with the thirteen-year-old tribute from District 12, Anthea, at the beginning, until one of the sneakier tributes was able to stab her in the back during a hunting trip. She would’ve killed Mycroft too, but she underestimated him. Mycroft’s weapon of choice was a sword about the size of his leg, which he carried around like an open umbrella until he needed it.

The only help from sponsors he got was shortly after Mycroft reached the final six, and a camera crew went to District 12 to interview Sherlock. Unfortunately, the interviewer annoyed him so much he ended up biting her, but somehow he was able to win the favor of a sponsor for Mycroft, for after his interview made it into the broadcast, a silver package flew in for his brother. It contained a hot meal – the first hot food Mycroft had eaten in a while – and it included a note that said nothing but “Sherlock is safe.”

In the end, it was just him verses last two Careers - arrogant, large, eighteen-year-old brutes named Jed Wakefield and Isadora Lent from District Two. When they first met to fight for the title of victor, Sherlock announced that Mycroft’s chance of winning was a little less than a quarter. It would’ve been lower if Jed didn’t have a leg suffering from the beginning stages of frostbite. If Mycroft took that to his advantage, Sherlock informed the Watsons’, it would heighten his chances.

He did use Jed’s leg to his advantage, and won against the two of them.

Mycroft only killed three people in the Arena – the girl who killed Anthea, and Isadora and Jed. Other than that, he let the tributes kill each other and the weather take hold. When he did kill, though, he didn’t seem like himself. He didn’t even look like the boy the Watsons’ met through the projections of the reaping and the Interview. He was cold and empty, and his eyes showed no emotion as he fought. Mycroft never cried after killing, not like some tributes had in the past. He didn’t smile, though, either. He just carried on as if nothing had ever happened. He was ruthless, showing no mercy to anyone. This gave him the nickname of “The Ice Man.” After sending his sword through Isadora’s chest, Mycroft finally let go the sword that never once left his hand during the course of the Games and left it stuck inside her chest, stepped away from the bodies, got to his knees, and looked skywards, searching for the hovercraft that would take him home.

There was no cheering in the Watson household when Mycroft Holmes won The Hunger Games. There was only empty silence as Sherlock cried. No one knew if they were tears of relief that his brother was alive, or fear, knowing that his brother was probably permanently changed by the Games. The viewers didn’t see Mycroft regain his normal state until he was back at the Capitol, at the Victor’s Interview. He seemed completely fine when he returned home, swooping Sherlock into his arms and hugging the life out of him, whispering “I missed you,” into his little brother’s ear.

Mycroft was eternally grateful for the Watson’s watching over Sherlock while he was in the Arena, and so, once he and Sherlock were moved into the Victor’s Village (population: 2), he bought the Watson family a new house – one with three bedrooms, instead of a grand total of three rooms. He also bought himself an umbrella, about the size of his old sword, which Sherlock caught him swinging around from time to time, which slightly frightened him, but not enough to keep the boy away from his brother. Sherlock slept in Mycroft’s bed with him every night for a year, despite the fact that Mycroft awoke at least once nightly to vomit, but once Sherlock was positive that his brother wasn’t going anywhere, he moved into his new room. By the time Sherlock's tenth birthday rolled around, Sherlock and Mycroft were back to the way they were before the Games; Sherlock being rude and annoying and making snide remarks regarding Mycroft’s weight, and Mycroft only caring about Sherlock in secret.

Even though Sherlock and John weren’t living together anymore, they were still thick as thieves, and Sherlock still slept over from time to time, when Mycroft had to go away to the Capitol for meetings or for the Games themselves. They even managed to find a broken bit of the electric fence that surrounded District 12 and were able to sneak out of the District and play in the woods, where Sherlock repeated the stories Mycroft had told him about the Games and talked freely about how he felt about the Capitol, the Games, and reported how Mycroft was doing, and John listened to every word. John went into his first Reaping Ceremony alone, but they held hands during Sherlock’s first reaping ceremony – where Sherlock’s name was entered once and John’s was entered ten times – and only breathed easy when they were both safe.

After John’s fourth reaping, a few months after the Games had ended and school had started up again, John had found Sherlock unresponsive in the home he and Mycroft shared, and soon found out that he had gotten addicted to (and had overdosed on) the Morphling that was supplied to Mycroft by the Capitol for winning the Games. After making sure Sherlock was okay, John feigned sickness to stay home from school to help Mycroft dispose of every last bit of the stuff. This caused Sherlock to stop talking to John for a week, but after John followed Sherlock beyond the fence and had a lengthy discussion, things were back to where they were before, except Sherlock was off the drugs.

“Can I ask why?” John asked as they walked back through the snow to District 12.

“No.”

“Why not?” John asked.

“Because it’s stupid,” Sherlock decided.

“No it’s not,” John assured him. “I won’t tell anyone. Promise.”

“Fine,” Sherlock sighed, caving in. “I...I couldn’t live with the idea of being reaped. Or you being reaped. I couldn’t just deal with it like everyone else does, but I knew there was no way out of it, so I thought I’d just...numb myself to it. Numb myself to the fear, I mean. I...I thought I had a handle on it, but I obviously didn’t.” John looked up and looked at the dark circles under Sherlock’s wide eyes. “I’ll be fine, though. Don’t worry. I – I’m sorry, John.”

“The only person that you really need to apologize to is Mycroft,” John informed him. “He tries his best for you, you know. I mean, he  _won_  the Hunger Games for you, Sherlock. This isn’t exactly the best way to repay him.”

“I know. Is he angry with me?” Sherlock asked, after a moment.

“No, he’s just worried about you.”

“He’s always worried about me.”

“Constantly,” they said together, and chuckled. There was a moment of silence and walking until Sherlock started talking again.

“If you get reaped, I’m volunteering,” he decided, and John stopped in his tracks.

“What?”

“If you get reaped –” Sherlock began to repeat, turning around and facing his best friend.

“No – Don’t repeat it! No,” John cut him off. “You’re not doing that. Not for me.”

“Wouldn’t you do it for me?” Sherlock asked, even though they both knew the answer. “I know you, John – I know you would.”

“In a heartbeat,” John affirmed. He had decided that years ago.

“Then what makes me volunteering for you so different?” Sherlock asked. When John had nothing to say, Sherlock continued. “See? Nothing. I’ll allow you to volunteer for me if you allow me to volunteer for you.”

John sighed. There was so much more of chance for his name to be pulled than Sherlock’s, and John wouldn’t be able to live with himself if his best friend was shipped off to the Arena because he sacrificed himself for him. But, if there was any chance for Sherlock’s name getting picked, John would be able to volunteer for him.

He couldn’t risk the possibility of his name being pulled, though.

“No.”

“No?” Sherlock repeated.

“No. If my name gets pulled – and you know I have a better chance of being reaped than you do – I can’t let you volunteer for me. I can’t do it.”

“But I’m –” Sherlock began, but John cut him off.

“I know. You’re clever – fantastically brilliant – and I don’t doubt your intelligence, but I can take care of myself, Sherlock, and I...I wouldn’t live with myself if I just let you take my place.”

“I wouldn’t live with myself if I just watched you leave.”

“What if I asked you to? What then?” John asked. Sherlock turned away and began to pace away and back toward John, thinking it over. “I trust you, Sherlock. You have to trust me.”

“I do trust you, John,” Sherlock said as he stopped pacing, standing back where he was.

“Do you promise not to volunteer for me, then?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at John, wearing a pained, frustrated expression.

“Fine. I promise.”

“Shake on it,” John ordered, holding out his hand. Sherlock sighed, still reluctant, but they shook on it.


	3. PART ONE: The Tributes // Respect, Admiration, and Goodbye

John’s mother had dressed John in a plaid, blue shirt the morning of John’s last reaping ceremony, and had Harry, who was fifteen years old at the time, wear a white shirt and blue skirt to match. Both outfits were generous gifts from Mycroft, who still gave the family thank-you presents, and showed no sign of stopping. Mrs. Watson tried to put a bow in Harry’s hair like she did when she was little, but she was having none of that. She was going to see her girlfriend that their mother didn’t know about – Clara Coleman – at the reaping ceremony. Harry’s name was only in 4 times – John wasn’t going to let her sacrifice herself for tesserae like he did every year.

His mother held John’s face in her hands. When he was younger and cried at times like this, she would kiss his cheeks and assure him that he wouldn’t get selected. Now that they both knew he knew that wasn’t quite true, she just held him and stared at his face, as if that was the last time they would ever see each other. Then she hugged him, and did the same to his sister as his father approached him. A man of few words and little affections to give, he simply patted John’s shoulder with a solemn look on his face, and hugged his daughter.

When they were younger, up until the year of Harry’s second and John’s fifth reaping ceremony, all the Watsons would walk together to the center of town at one o’clock sharp. Then they would separate and watch the cameras roll and display to the rest of the nation the heart pounding moment of watching the district representative reach their hand into the glass bowl and pull out a name that could very possibly be theirs. Now that they were older, they let their children walk alone, promising to join them later.

Once Harry and John were out of the house’s view, Harry took her bow out of her hair and ruffled the kinks out of her auburn hair, tossing the bow to the ground.

“I’m gonna meet up with Clara, okay?” she asked.

“Alright,” John said, nodding. “I’ll see you after the ceremony?”

“I’ll probably be going to Clara’s, but if not, yeah, of course,” she agreed, beginning to go on her way. “See you, John!”

“Bye, Harry! Stay out of trouble!” John called after her.

“Absolutely not!” she called back, and John chuckled. When his sister was out of sight, John bent down and picked up her bow, stashing it in his pocket. As he straightened up, he heard someone’s voice behind him.

“John!”

John spun around to find Sherlock and Mycroft coming his way. They were dressed in their best, as was John; Sherlock in a dark purple dress shirt and black trousers, and Mycroft (who was now twenty-four) in a grey, pinstripe suit (despite the weather), his umbrella in hand, as always.

“Sherlock!” John cried, running over and hugging his best friend.

“Are the odds ‘ever in your favor’?” Sherlock mimicked the Games’ motto, copying the Capitol’s accent to perfection.

“I hope so – I’ll get back to you on that,” John joked, smiling. He then turned to Mycroft. “Hello, Mycroft. Mom says thank you for the outfits.”

“It’s my pleasure, John. How are you, today?” Mycroft asked as the two shook hands.

“I’m well, how are you?” John asked, and everyone knew it was a serious question as opposed to a casual one. Ever since he won the Sixty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games, Mycroft had to mentor each of fourteen tributes from District 12 that were reaped since then. Today, he would be adding two more tributes to that list, and given District 12’s losing streak, it wasn’t something Mycroft could say he was looking forward to.

“Fine,” Mycroft replied.

“He said the same thing about his diet,” Sherlock whispered to John.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. If you’ll excuse me, I have to meet with the escort, Mrs. Hudson, before the reaping ceremony,” he informed the boys, and then looked at Sherlock. “I’ll see you in a little over a week, unless you hear otherwise.” All of the mentors were required to join the tributes when they went to the Capitol. Most of them stayed there for the length of the Games, but Mycroft rode back to District 12 to watch after Sherlock, making calls to sponsors when he needed to. There were some years he called Sherlock and informed him he would remain at the Capitol for the length of the Games (or, until both tributes from District 12 were killed), but years like this were few and far in between. “Will you be alright with John?” he asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock assured him.

“That’s good to hear,” Mycroft said, grinning.

He then said goodbye to the boys, and even managed to sneak in a hug, much to Sherlock’s disdain.

“Get off, you ton of lard – you’re crushing me –” he choked out before being freed. Mycroft rolled his eyes, pulled out a comb from his breast pocket, and tried to re-comb Sherlock’s unmanageable hair.

“It’s not working,” Sherlock informed him.

“It’s always worth a try,” Mycroft replied, putting the comb back. “Good day,” he said, and left for the center of town, spinning his umbrella as he went.

John looked at Sherlock as he watched his brother walk away.

“You alright?” John asked as Mycroft turned the corner and out of sight.

“Hm? Yes, fine. You?”

“Sherlock,” John sighed. “Your name’s only in there six times. Next year it’ll be seven, and then you’ll be done. You’ll never have another reaping. And Mycroft? He’s fine – he’s just a mentor. He’ll be back in, like, two weeks. Okay?”

“I said I’m fine, John,” Sherlock assured him, mussing up his own hair. “How many times are you in, this year?” he asked suddenly, or it would be suddenly if he didn’t ask every year.

“Forty-five,” John replied.

“Oh, god.” Sherlock whispered, sighing and closing his eyes. “This whole thing is tedious; I’m just glad that _one_ of us is going to be out of this mess after this. Let’s go see what the odds are, this year...” he said, opening his eyes, grabbing John’s hand as he did every year, and together they walked to the reaping ceremony in the center of town, just as the alarms began to go off – the alarms that called all children between the ages of twelve and eighteen to gather to be reaped. John stood behind Sherlock as he got his finger pricked by the Peacekeepers, and when they released Sherlock he walked a bit into the crowd, and then held back and waited for John.

John held out his hand, and the Peacekeeper reached out and roughly grabbed his middle finger. The man pricked his finger, and smudged the blood into a box on a page in a book. The book identified him as “WATSON, JOHN HAMISH 18 Y/O” just under a box that identified the smear of blood it contained as “HOLMES, WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT 17 Y/O”, and John was free to go. They rejoined their hands as John caught up with Sherlock, and together they walked to the cusp between of District 12’s groups of seventeen-year-old and eighteen-year-old boys before the stage, with only the eighteen-year-old boys standing between them and the stage itself.

“The Peacekeeper, did you notice?” Sherlock whispered in John’s ear.

“Notice what?”

“He was late for duty this morning – he missed a spot,” Sherlock deduced, running a hand over his own clean-shaven chin. “He was in a rush. Did you notice?”

“Oh – no, I didn’t. I don’t really pay attention to the Peacekeepers,” John muttered back, and it was true: he never dared look one in the face. “Can you see Harry?” he asked, and Sherlock stood up straight – reaching almost six feet in height – and looked around until he caught sight of the dark red hair that only belonged to Harriet Watson.

“Yes, she’s there,” Sherlock whispered, nodding in Harry’s direction. John, who was only five feet and three inches tall, stood on his toes to see his sister, but Sherlock had his eyes straight ahead.

At exactly two o’clock, Mycroft Holmes, Martha Hudson, and the mayor of District 12 had just stepped out onto the stage from the Justice Building. Mycroft and the mayor took their seats in the two chairs available for them, and their District Representative, Mrs. Hudson, an old woman all dolled up in her Capitol clothes – an almost blinding shade of yellow – stepped up to the microphone.

“Welcome, welcome!” she exclaimed, grinning at the silent crowd. “Happy Hunger Games, one and all! And may the odds be ever in your favor!” Sherlock took a deep breath, and John squeezed his hand, which Sherlock reciprocated back to him.

“She looks like a highlighter,” Sherlock breathed into John’s ear, and John’s mouth couldn’t help breaking into a grin.

“Now, before we begin this year’s reaping ceremony, we have a very special film introduction for you all, graciously brought to you by the lovely Capitol,” she gestured up to the screen behind her – a gigantic, color screen, and it began the film that played every year at the start of every reaping ceremony. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the routine.

“Dull,” he muttered, but John watched the film as it illustrated why the Hunger Games took place each year: the Dark Days.

The Dark Days referred to a time long before even Sherlock and John’s parents were born, when the (at the time) thirteen districts rebelled against the Capitol. It was an all-out war, until District 13 was completely destroyed, along with any inhabitants of the land. Paralyzed by fear, the rebellion was at a stand-still, and in that time the Capitol placed the remaining twelve Districts back under its thumb. To keep them there, they created the First Annual Hunger Games. The Games involved two children from each District who were chosen as tributes to fight against other tributes from all of the other districts, until only one person was left alive. This person would be crowned victor, and therefore would serve as a reminder of the Capitol’s power, and by extension, the past.

Sherlock mouthed the words of the film, having heard it all before. About a quarter of the way through, John joined him, as part of a game that they played to slow down their adrenaline rush from the anxiety.

At the end of the film, all eyes went back to Mrs. Hudson, only she was replaced by the mayor, and he read off the name of the only victor District 12 had ever had: Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft rose out of his seat for a moment, and a few people clapped for him – John and Sherlock only did because it was Sherlock’s brother. As Mycroft sat back down, the mayor re-introduced Mrs. Hudson, and she began the actual reaping.

“The time has come for our courageous tributes to be selected for the honor of representing our very own District Twelve in the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!” she announced. She gestured to a glass bowl filled with names on folded pieces of paper that was on the stage before the crowd of girls. “Ladies first,” she almost sang as she reached into the bowl.

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand so tightly Sherlock wondered how long it would take for his fingers to fall off due to John cutting off his circulation. John’s hand only slightly loosened when sixteen-year-old Mary Morstan, a fairly attractive girl in a white dress with short, blonde hair was called up to the stage.

“Strong relationship with her mother,” Sherlock observed as Mary walked by them as she made her way up to the front of the crowd.

“How do you know?”

“The dress – it used to belong to her mother before passing it down to her. The hemlines are tattered – that shows the age,” Sherlock informed him.

“You could tell that from over here?” John asked.

“Obviously.”

“Brilliant,” John breathed, and Sherlock grinned.

“And now, for the boys...” Mrs. Hudson continued as she reached into the glass bowl and pulled out a name. She unfolded the paper and read the name out.

“John Watson!”

Before John had time to react, Sherlock’s voice ripped through the crowd.

“I VOL-” he was able to yell before John covered his mouth with his free hand. Sherlock stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, aghast, as John removed his hand from his mouth, his eyes fearful but full of warning. “John – I can do this – I’m smarter – I’m smarter than everyone. Let me –” Sherlock began.

“No. We promised. We shook on it, remember?” John asked.

“John Watson?” Mrs. Hudson called out again.

“I – no, please – John, let me – I can’t – you can’t – John –” Sherlock stammered.

“I’m sorry,” John whispered, his voice breaking as he tore his hand from Sherlock’s, and the crowd parted like the red sea before him.

“No! JOHN –” Sherlock shouted, but one of the boys from John’s class held Sherlock back. The scrawny boy was no match for the bigger boy, and so John left them with Sherlock pawing the air helplessly.

Every eye was on John’s face as he approached the stage and Mrs. Hudson. Every footstep John made caused the hammering in his chest to grow louder and harder as he walked. The only sound he could hear was Sherlock calling after him.

“JOHN!  _JOHN!_  Let go of me you  _idiot – JOHN!”_

John didn’t dare look back. His breathing became shallow as he climbed the stairs and he and Mycroft made eye contact. Mycroft closed his eyes, as if pained with the weight of seeing his brother’s best friend and knowing the fate that was laid out before him.

Mrs. Hudson met him on the stage, and he stood beside her, staring out into the crowd. Sherlock’s screams had stopped, now. John looked down at him, and saw that John’s classmate had let go of him. Without breaking eye contact, Sherlock raised three fingers of his left hand to his mouth and kissed them, and then held his arm up above his head for John to see. In District 12, this was a sign of respect, of admiration, and of goodbye. Sherlock and John had seen the sign at both of Sherlock’s parents’ funerals – John wondered how Sherlock remembered it.

“Presenting our new tributes from District Twelve: Mary Morstan and John Watson!” Mrs. Hudson cheerfully announced, as John only broke eye contact with Sherlock to shake hands with Mary. “Happy Hunger Games, and may the odds be ever in your favor,” Mrs. Hudson concluded, and the anthem of Panem played. Once it was over, she led the new tributes into the Justice Building.

John glanced back at Sherlock to see his hand had not lowered, and that was the last thing John saw before the Peacekeepers closed the doors behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posted on Valentine's Day! (I don't know why this is so funny to me omg)


	4. Three Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day - HAVE PAIN.

The Peacekeepers and Mrs. Hudson led Mary and John into separate rooms of the Justice Building and locked them in.

John paced the room, running his hands through his hair. This was his last reaping ceremony – he wasn’t supposed to be reaped!

This couldn’t have been happening – this wasn’t how things went or how life worked or anything even though John  _knew_  it was indeed happening and this was how things went and how life worked.

He knew Mary was next door – he pressed his ear to the wall, but couldn’t hear much. Voices – her family. Her mother. It hadn’t even been ten minutes and the moment where Sherlock was deducing the tribute under his breath in John’s ear already seemed so long ago.

The Peacekeepers that were guarding his room opened the door announcing that he had three minutes and in moments Mr. and Mrs. Watson and Harry had all piled in, and all of them were hugging him. Harry and Mrs. Watson were in pieces, and John could swear his father had something in his eye.

John honestly had no idea what his mother was saying as she held his face in her hands and Harry hugged John’s side, he just kept repeating “Let Sherlock and Mycroft take care of you. Take anything they offer. Don’t worry about me.”

“John – John, I love you. So much. We all do,” his mother told him, and John nodded as she kissed his forehead.

“I love you too, Mom,” John said, trying to keep his voice from cracking.

His mother let him go and Mr. Watson hugged his son. When he let him go he placed his hands on John’s shoulders.

“Be brave. Be strong,” he urged him.

“Be  _safe,”_  Mrs. Watson added.

“Do everything you can,” Mr. Watson went on as if his wife hadn’t spoken.

“I know,” John said, and then looked at Harry as Mr. Watson let him go. John reached into his pocket and pulled out her hair ribbon. He placed it into Harry’s hands and kissed her forehead.

“Don’t put your name in more than you have to, Harry. Sherlock and Mycroft will take care of you – all of you –” John promised, looking at the rest of his family. “– let them. I – I’ll...” John started, but couldn’t bring himself to promise the near-impossible.

“Come back,” Harry finished for him, her voice breaking, the words sounding like more like a request.

“I’ll try. As hard as I can,” John promised, and the doors burst open again, and the Peacekeepers dragged a crying Harry off of her brother, and led Mr. and Mrs. Watson out of the room. “Don’t worry about me! I – I love you!” John called as the door closed.

It then hit him that was very possibly the last time he would ever see his family, and he swore at the top of his lungs, running his hands through his hair. He had to keep it together – this wasn’t how tributes became victors – this wasn’t how anyone got anywhere. John sat down in one of the chairs in the room and put his head in his hands.

“I’m here to see John Watson!” someone yelled outside the doors, and John lifted his head.

The doors began to open as the Peacekeepers spoke to the visitor.

“You have –”

“Three minutes, I know –” Sherlock Holmes cut him off, bursting into the room, eyes searching and finding – “John!” he called, and John stood up and hugged his friend, tears finally spilling down his cheeks. The hug only lasted a few moments before Sherlock tore them apart, and began speaking at a speed John could barely keep up with, trying to tell him everything he could manage to fit within three minutes. “This is yours – it’s a tribute token. I picked it up a while ago at the Hob – it was going to be your birthday present but it’s yours, now; I ran home and got it as soon as the reaping was over,” he began, pulling out blank dog tags from his pocket and putting it over John’s head. Sherlock then grabbed John’s shoulders and continued. “I know you’re scared – that’s okay, fear is just wisdom in the face of danger, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of – but I need you to listen, okay?” John nodded, but Sherlock continued without pausing for John to give any more of an answer than that. “Don’t worry about your family, John – I’ll take care of them; Mycroft will, too. Just worry about yourself. Make the sponsors like you – make everyone like you – you’re a likeable person you can do it easily. Don’t let the other tributes know of any advantages you have – take them by surprise. Don’t trust anyone. Watch out for the careers – tributes from Districts One, Two, and Four; they’re your biggest threat. Don’t panic, be smart. Think with your head, not your heart. You can do it – you’re smart. Don’t talk to the Avoxes unless it’s an order – don’t feel bad they won’t talk back to you – John –” In a split second, Sherlock lost all the strategic composure he had and broke into sobs leaning his forehead against John’s. John pushed his forehead into Sherlock’s, and they wrapped their arms around each other’s necks. “Please –  _please_  don’t die, John – you can’t –”

“I’ll try, Sherlock –” John assured him through his tears.

“You have to do more than  _try,_  John – you can win. I know you can,” Sherlock waited for John to respond, but when he knew he wasn’t going to get such a promise, he continued. “I meant what I said – when we first met. I don’t have friends.” John’s eyes met Sherlock’s. “I just have one. I have one friend – one best friend. John Watson, you are brilliant, you are fantastic and – John – You know I try to divorce myself from my feelings, but it’s never been that way with you. And I didn’t know if I was ever going to put this into words but since – since there’s a chance we won’t see each other again I want you to know – No!” Sherlock yelled as they heard the doors open, wrapping his arms around John again and bringing him in for another hug.

John shut his eyes as tightly as possible and fought against the Peacekeepers that were tearing them apart. When they finally did break the two boys apart, it took three Peacekeepers to drag Sherlock away, and two Peacekeepers to keep John from chasing after him. As soon as they couldn’t hear Sherlock’s cries of “JOHN!” despite the fact that John was still calling out for Sherlock, the Peacekeepers let go of John and locked him up again.

He knew he wouldn’t have any more visitors, so he fell to the floor and allowed himself to have a cry, for it was only a matter of time before he would be gathered up again and led to the train that would take him and Mary to the Capitol, never to see District 12 again.

Not long after John regained his composure, Mrs. Hudson and the Peacekeepers rounded John and Mary up and led them to a car, which a different Peacekeeper drove to District 12’s train station, where even more Peacekeepers escorted John, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson into the train to bring them to the Capitol. John had never been inside a car, and he assumed Mary had never been, either, by the way she kept touching the seat. The station was filled with reporters and cameramen, all of them taking pictures and filming John and Mary. John wasn’t sure how to feel – how to look for the cameras – and as he glimpsed at himself on a screen he found that he only looked afraid.

John, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson all had to stand before the train and let the reporters take their pictures, and then they were all allowed to board the train. John assumed Mycroft was already in the train, waiting for them. The entire time Mrs. Hudson filled the silence with endless babble about something John wasn’t really paying attention to – probably about the opportunity they were getting experiencing a taste of the Capitol life before being shipped off to their inevitable deaths. Of course, Mrs. Hudson sugar-coated that fact to the nth degree.

The train was more than elegant – everything was cleaned to a shine, everything smelled good, and the food was the likes that John and Mary had never seen before. As Mrs. Hudson talked, John couldn’t help but continue staring, barely paying attention to what Mrs. Hudson had to say. He was sure she said something about the trip taking until tomorrow, and that his chamber contained a bedroom with a television, a bathroom with hot water, and a closet, filled with new clothes just for him.

Mycroft chose not to join them to recap the reaping Ceremonies from each District, but John wasn’t really there, either. He didn’t even join them for dinner, where Mary ate more than John, simply because Mycroft and Sherlock always made sure that the Watsons had enough to eat. John only remembered Mrs. Hudson informing them that she liked “Mr. Holmes,” because he actually had manners, unlike some tributes she’s escorted over the years.

“Have you met him?” he heard Mary ask, and he looked over to find that Mrs. Hudson was gone, and Mary was addressing him for the first time.

“Sorry, what?” John asked politely.

“Mycroft Holmes – have you met him?” Mary repeated.

“Oh – well –” John began to tell her that Mycroft Holmes was his best friend’s brother, but he was suddenly reminded of one of the pieces of Sherlock’s advice: Don’t let the others know of any advantages you have. As far as advantages went, personally knowing the mentor for about eight years was definitely one of them. “No, I haven’t,” John lied.

“Oh,” Mary said, nodding.

“I – um – I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m John,” John said, putting out his hand to Mary. Mary half-smiled.

“I know who you are, John. But it’s nice meeting you,” she took his hand, and John sighed as she let go.

“I...I’m sorry this happened to you. Really,” John informed her.

“Same,” Mary agreed, looking John over and blushing. “You’re too nice to be here.”

“So are you,” John informed her, half-smiling.

It was then the compartment door opened, and the two tributes looked up to see Mycroft Holmes speaking as he entered the car, words so accurately measured that it was obvious he had made this speech every year:

“All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. My name is Mycroft Holmes, victor of the Sixty-Sixth Annual Hunger Games, and I will be your mentor for the duration of the Hunger Games. I am to help you prepare for your interviews to gain sponsors and gifts, help you strategize your play in the Arena, and, basically, try to help one of you get out alive,” he introduced himself, sitting down and looking back and forth between John and Mary. John felt like there was a filter between himself and Mycroft – he had known the young man for years – he was best friends with his brother, taking Sherlock in while Mycroft himself was in the Arena – he was always so kind to John’s family and did them so many favors since winning the Games – they had shook hands and exchanged pleasantries just that morning. Now it was like Mycroft and John were just meeting for the first time. “We will begin training once we reach the Capitol. You can either choose to train with me together or separately – that is completely your choice. For now, until we reach the Capitol, we’ll just get to know each other. If you have any questions, feel free to ask me. Lastly, all the food that the Capitol has to offer on this train is yours for the taking. I know how your lives have been in District Twelve, so I’m telling you now to try everything. I recommend the Red Velvet Cake, myself,” he informed them, looking at John while giving his suggestion. A flicker of friendship and recognition appeared in his eyes, but it went away before John could know for sure that it was there. “It was nice to finally meet you Mary Morstan; John Watson,” he said, shaking Mary and John’s hands as he said their names. Mycroft gave John’s hand a little extra squeeze as they shook hands. “Don’t tell Mrs. Hudson, but I am extremely apologetic for your current circumstance. I will help both of you in any way that I can,” he stood. “Good day to you both. I’ll be in the next car if either of you need me,” he said, and then Mycroft was walking off, taking a bottle of sherry off the counter as he went.

Mary and John looked at each other.

“So, do you want to train together?” John asked nonchalantly. “Because I wouldn’t mind if you’d want to...”

“As much as I want to, I don’t think that would be the best idea, would it?” she asked.

“Yeah, probably not,” John agreed, put out.

He had to make himself focus: he wasn’t there to make friends or develop a relationship with the attractive girl he was being forced to fight against. He had to kill this girl – and twenty-two other people like her.

The thought alone felt like a stab to his stomach.

“I’m going to go to my room. It was nice meeting you, John,” Mary said, and stood up and left.

John watched as she left and only one thing crossed his mind: he couldn’t do this.

* * *

There was a knock on the door of the Holmes residence. Sherlock straightened up, wondering who it could’ve been. The only person who went to the Holmes’ was John, and he was...

He exited the kitchen, entered the hallway, and opened the door to find Harry Watson on his doorstep. He quickly deduced from her slightly bloodshot eyes and lack of eye contact that she had spent a considerable amount of the day crying. However, to be fair, so had he.

“Harry? I wasn’t...expecting you,” he said in lieu of greeting.

“Mom wanted me to tell you that you can come over to watch the reapings,” Harry informed him quietly. Sherlock normally spent the week that Mycroft was off mentoring at John’s, but since John was gone, he didn’t know if he was welcome. He was planning to stop by that night, though.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said awkwardly. “Has your mother begun cooking dinner?”

“Um...No?”

“Good. Run back, tell her not to. I’ll be there in about thirty minutes,” Sherlock spoke quickly. Harry shrugged.

“Alright,” she said, turning around, and Sherlock shut the door.

In ten minutes time, someone was knocking on the door again. Sherlock turned away from his project and yelled at the door.

“SHUT!  _UP!”_

There was silence for only a moment before the knocking started up again, and Sherlock was forced to answer it. He groaned as turned around and began to walk back into the hall, leisurely knocking over a vase as he went.

“This better be bloody important or I’ll – Harry?” he asked again as he found Harry on his doorstep once more.

“Don’t worry, I told mom. Can I come in?” she asked.

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“I wanna know what you’re up to,” Harry replied.

“I never said I was up to anything,” Sherlock informed her.

“Then how come you didn’t just come with me when I came to get you ten minutes ago?” she asked.

“Let me guess: you also need a distraction from today’s events,” Sherlock said instead of replying, and Harry nodded. Sherlock hated having guests that weren’t John, but he decided to make an exception. “Come in – I’ve been in the kitchen,” he said, stepping away from the door and granting her entry.

“Thanks,” Harry said, and stepped inside. She looked around the hallway and kitchen as Sherlock led her from one room to the other. “How come every vase in your house is broken?” she asked as they walked. “Won’t Mycroft be mad?”

“He’ll just replace them,” Sherlock assured her.

“How do you know?”

“Because I do this every year – to some extent. Normally I’ve just broken a few, but this year, for obvious reasons...” he paused, unable to bring himself to say that John Watson was now a Hunger Games tribute. He strode across the room over to a broken vase in the corner. “This one’s been on my shit list for years; it’s hideous,” he picked up a larger shard and showed it to Harry. “I was saving it for something special,” he mumbled, throwing the shard down, breaking it further.

Harry’s attention turned from Sherlock to Sherlock’s project.

“What are you working on?” she asked.

“Dinner. For you and your family,” Sherlock revealed. “It’s Tandoori Chicken, Rice, Tortellini Soup, and Honey Cake.”

“I didn’t know you could cook,” Harry said. “It smells delicious.”

“Cooking is a science, and I am a scientist. Not a difficult leap,” he crossed back to the stove to check on his food, and then looked back to Harry, who was sitting at the table, looking at one of the shattered vases on the floor. “How’s everyone taking it?” he asked, turning to her.

“Not well,” Harry admitted. “Mom hasn’t really stopped crying. Dad’s sort of just sat there staring at the television screen.”

“What about Clara?”

“What about Clara?” Harry repeated the question back to him, making it her own. “She’s not John’s friend.”

“Yes, but she’s yours. When my brother was gone John had to be there for me, so Clara has to be there for you, now. It’s what friends do – especially  _girl_ friends,” Sherlock added, and Harry snapped her head up to look at him.

“What?”

“Don’t deny it, Harry – John and I both know you like girls,” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. “And we both support you.”

“Don’t tell Mom,” Harry begged.

“We had no intention of doing so,” Sherlock assured her, and Harry thanked him. With a nod, he turned back to the stove.

“Why are you being so nice?” Harry asked after a moment. “Everyone at school says you’re really rude.”

“I _am_ really rude,” Sherlock affirmed.

“I _know_ that,” Harry said, rolling her eyes. “But you’re nice to John – and you’re being nice to me, right now.”

“I’m plenty rude to John,” Sherlock assured her. “And, well, you’re John’s sister – you’re his family; I owe you and your parents a lot. And John’s...John’s...” he paused, trying to think of a way to describe John. In a moment, he found himself frustrated toward the Games and the universe as a whole, and Sherlock opened one of the cabinets and pushed a stack of plates out and onto the floor, causing Harry to jump. Then there was silence. “Different,” Sherlock finished quietly, talking to the shattered plates. “John’s different.” He then turned his attention back to the stove, checking on the chicken and cake.

“We should get going – they’re done,” Sherlock said, putting on oven gloves and beginning to take the chicken out of the oven. After the two placed the dinner into containers and Sherlock downed a glass of water he had been drinking and dropped it on the floor as opposed to having to wash it in the sink, Sherlock and Harry were off to John’s house.

The Watsons and Sherlock watched the reaping Ceremonies shortly after dinner. Sherlock had brought a notebook from home and wrote down anything he deduced from the other twenty-three tributes. Occasionally he would voice a deduction, such as who was most likely to die at the bloodbath, but other than that it was a silent watch. He kept a close eye on the six tributes from the Career Districts: Irene Adler and Jim Moriarty from District 1, Ella Thompson and Sebastian Moran from District 2, and Kate Halstead and Jeff Hope from District 4.

“What about her? Bloodbath, right?” Harry asked about a twelve-year-old girl from District 8, Molly Hooper.

“If she goes for the Cornucopia at all, yes,” Sherlock replied. “If she chooses to run away with nothing, she’ll last for a little while.”

“But one step towards the Cornucopia and she’s doomed?” she asked. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock scoffed when Victor Trevor, a tall, blonde, sixteen-year-old tribute from District 9, was chosen for the Games.

“If Caesar Flickerman doesn’t bring up the fact that his name is ‘Victor’ during the interviews I’m going to smash another stack of plates just because he passed up that opportunity,” Sherlock announced, which broke Harry’s frown for a minute.

It seemed like the entire District was dead silent the moment John’s name was called up. The Capitol used their editing tools to mute Sherlock calling for John, but if they looked closely at the aerial view of John walking toward the stage, they could see Sherlock being held back by the eighteen year old.

“It seems we almost had District Twelve’s first volunteer, this year, but it looks like John Watson himself stopped him,” the announcer, Claudius Templesmith, noted, and Sherlock suddenly felt like knifes were plunging and twisting into his stomach. “A small fight for glory that John clearly won; let’s see if he can win the real glory, and the title of victor of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games.”

“Fuck off,” Harry muttered, rolling her eyes, but Sherlock was too focused to agree. It was just like watching Mycroft go into the Arena all over again, but somehow it was so much worse.

After the end of the broadcast and after the Watsons’ thanked Sherlock for dinner and his company, Sherlock Holmes went home and broke every drinking glass he and Mycroft owned. He was saving the ceramic bowls for the interviews.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter on the 28th!


	5. Opportunity

The rest of the night Mrs. Hudson went on about their “opportunity,” and Mycroft continued to act like he and John had just met that day. After John and Mary informed him that they would rather train separately, he announced that he would meet with Mary and John privately that night to get to know them better – Mary right at that moment and John after that.

When Mary returned from her meeting, John asked how it went, to which Mary replied that it was good, and Mycroft was very posh and respectful to her. Though he begged for specifics, she playfully refused to give him anything “for the sake of The Games,” which John understood. When he was summoned, John followed Mycroft into his office.

“Please sit, John,” Mycroft gestured to the seat in front of the desk in the room, and John sat. “Do forgive me for any confusion you may have experienced over the last day between you and me. I heard what you said to Miss Morstan; I figured it would be best for me to play the part,” Mycroft informed John as he sat in his seat, smiling as he had that morning.

“Oh,” John said, slightly relieved. “Thank you.”

“That being said, of course, I cannot give you any special treatment simply because you’re my little brother’s best friend; it would be unfair to Miss Morstan.” Mycroft said. “Speaking of which, I noticed you’ve attempted to pursue a relationship with her.”

“No – I – I mean – I haven’t – not really –”

“Good. If you were, I’d have to tell you to end it, preferably before you two are pitted against one another in the Hunger Games Arena. There is no way for two tributes to come out alive – any relationship you form with Miss Morstan will be demolished in a matter of days. I’m telling you this now and I’ve told Miss Morstan the same: it’s not worth it. You can find someone to romance if and when you return home; for now, you must focus on the task at hand: surviving the Games,” he concluded, disappointment in his eyes. John kept eye contact until he couldn’t anymore, and looked down at his hands. “Now that that’s out of the way, how are you doing, John?” he asked sympathetically, pouring himself a glass of sherry.

“I’m – I’m okay, I think,” John replied slowly, looking up and noticing the sherry. “You never drank back in District Twelve,” he informed him, though it came out as a question.

“I only drink during the Games. I never personally knew a tribute before, though. There’s a first time for everything, I suppose,” he said, and downed the sherry. “You may not know it, but I consider you to be one of my greatest friends, John Watson. I would trade almost anything to not have you sit before me right now.” He refilled his glass.

“I would too, believe me,” John assured him. “I didn’t know we were friends, though. Thank you.”

“But of course – you took my brother in when he had no one to watch over him. At first I just knew I had a debt to repay to a family who took care of my brother. When I met you, I believed that you would either be the making of my brother, or you’d make him worse than ever. But as you both grew and I got to know you better, I realized: you were making him a better person, because you are a good person, John.”

“Thank you,” John repeated, nervous. Mycroft never talked like this – like it would be the last opportunity for him to say these things.

“And, as awful as it sounds, I do want to thank you for preventing Sherlock to volunteer for you; as hard as it is to see you here, I have no idea what I would do if my brother was in your place.”

John nodded.

“Of course,” he replied, unsure of what else he could even say to that.

“I apologize, John. Truly. But we both have a younger sibling; I’m sure you know where I’m coming from.”

“It’s okay,” John murmured, and Mycroft picked up his glass and surveyed it in the light of the car.

“I blamed myself, you know,” he said quietly, after a moment, not taking his eyes away from the glass. “For years.”

“For what – oh,” John began to ask, but then realized: the death of his mother.

“I believed that she doubted me – she couldn’t bear to lose her son in the bloodbath. I thought she didn’t believe in me.” He set down his glass. “I was wrong, of course – I only realized this after you discovered Sherlock had gotten into the Morphling. She didn’t doubt me, she just couldn’t bear to see me compete. She couldn’t bear to see me in such danger. Of course, I am upset with her for leaving Sherlock like she did, but on the other hand you two may have never gotten as close as you two are if it hadn’t of happened that way.”

“It’s funny how things work like that,” John said.

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed, picking up the sherry and taking a few sips. “Tell me: how do you think he’s doing?”

“I can’t imagine,” John admitted.

“Neither can I,” he paused, taking another sip. “It’s times like these I wish I could play a game of favorites. You have so much potential, John – you have to if you’re a friend of the Holmes’. If it were up to me I’d be your mentor exclusively.”

“You don’t think Mary has potential?” John asked.

“Miss Morstan has nerve. She has courage – bravery. But, as a mentor in the Hunger Games, I’ve found that bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity.”

“The careers are brave, they win every –”

“The careers are blind, John. They’re trained do to anything to win – their morals are skewed. Yes, they win almost every year, but tributes with potential outshine the brave and the blind.”

John mulled over Mycroft’s words.

“Do you really think I can win this?” he asked.

“From what I can tell, you have more of a chance than Miss Morstan. Can I trust you to keep this information between us, John?”

“Yeah – of course,” John promised.

“Good,” Mycroft said, finishing his glass. “Tomorrow we will arrive in the Capitol. I should warn you that you and Mary will be prepared for the tribute parade, then.”

“Warn me?” John repeated. “Why, what’s the preparation about?”

“It’s just about the most intense shower you’ve ever experienced.” John made an uncomfortable face. “Unfortunately that is the life of the Capitol. My best advice is to just do as they say – it’ll be a lot easier for you, that way. You are free to go if you wish, John – that’s all I wanted to discuss with you,” Mycroft dismissed him, pouring himself another glass of sherry.

“Okay, thank you, Mycroft,” John said, standing, and Mycroft responded with a nod and a tight-lipped smile, his eyes full of sympathy.

“Oh, and John?” he called as John was just about to reach the door.

“Yes?” John asked, turning around.

“I am sorry about Miss Morstan, you know. If it means anything, if I wasn’t in charge of looking out for your best interest, I’d let you two carry on.”

“I know.” John nodded, putting his hand on the knob.

“I just worry about you, especially now,” he informed him.

“Constantly?” John asked, half-smiling, which Mycroft returned.

“Constantly.”

John and Sherlock both spent that night watching another rerun of the reapings, each making different notes about John’s opponents.

Sherlock was strictly tactical: Sebastian Moran’s strength was going to be a problem if he and John got into a physical fight, but then again, John was strong, too; both tributes from District 1 looked clever – almost as clever as Sherlock, but John was clever, as well – he had to be if he was Sherlock’s best friend. He disregarded anyone he thought would die in the bloodbath, yet he remembered Molly Hooper, just in case.

John had a more personal approach – he found himself still shocked by the fact that he was even in the Games. He found himself shuddering at the relaxed tone and slight smirk Jim Moriarty volunteered with and how Sebastian Moran acted as if he was just being dragged to a social gathering he didn’t feel like attending instead of being chosen for the Hunger Games, and tearing up at how immediate Sherlock’s attempted volunteer was when they showed a silent clip of it. He kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock, whose eyes widened at the sound of John’s name and quickly raised his hand over his head and tried to yell for them to take him instead as the John on the television stood beside him, his eyes wide and blank as his life flashed before them, until he was snapped back to reality and clapped his hand over Sherlock’s mouth, angrily and fearfully.

“It seems we almost had District Twelve’s first volunteer, this year, but it looks like John Watson himself stopped him,” Claudius Templesmith, the announcer for the Games, noted in a voice over. “A small fight for glory that John clearly won; let’s see if he can win the real glory, and the title of victor of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games,” he said as the camera cut away from John in the crowd to John standing on the stage next to Mrs. Hudson, staring into a space in the crowd that only John knew was Sherlock.

It was then he couldn’t take it anymore, and turned off the television.

* * *

Shortly after breakfast the next morning the train pulled into the blinding-white Capitol Station. Crowds of the Capitol’s residents met them there, waving at the train and cheering at John and Mary as if they were heroes. Mary seemed to enjoy the influx of attention, as she rushed to the window to wave at them. John looked at Mycroft for instruction, and Mycroft gave him a look that seemed to illustrate that this was the sort of behavior that gave him the impression that Mary had nerve, but he nodded to the window as Mary called John over, and John was allowed to wave, too. As Peacekeepers escorted Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, John, and Mary off of the train and to their prepping station in the Remake center, Mary leaned over to John.

“It makes you wonder what winning feels like,” she whispered to him, and lifted her hand to wave and smile at more of the Capitol citizens, and John joined her as the crowd began to call for John’s attention.

Mary was right – just seeing how excited the Capitol was of John and Mary’s simple arrival made John think about how they felt about the victors. He then took a minute to remind himself that they weren’t necessarily excited to see them, they were just excited to see tributes. Soon, they’d be excited to see their deaths.

John had never seen people like the people who lived in the Capitol. They were dressed like Mrs. Hudson but more extravagantly – and by “extravagantly” he meant “absurdly” – wearing bright, colorful dresses and suits. They wore headdresses and wigs and if they didn’t they dyed their hair every color and wore it in styles that probably took hours to fashion. Their faces were all but painted with makeup – some had eyelash extensions the length of John’s fingers. John felt extremely out of place, and couldn’t help but stare.

Mycroft was right about the prepping: John felt like he was being washed of every smidgen of dirt he had possessed. He was sent to a special little room in the remake center (a whole building dedicated to this part of the process) and stripped down and hosed and scrubbed raw, getting rid of any calluses on his hands and feet, then his prep team – who consisted of three people: Flavius, Venia, and Octavia – waxed his arms, chest, and legs. They shaved the stubble on his chin so closely John felt like they shaved off a layer of his skin along with it, plucked his eyebrows, trimmed his hair (and complained about how they couldn’t do much to it for John kept it at such a short length), and hosed him down again. After the second washing, they did his nails, clipping and filing his fingernails and toenails to perfection, then they hosed him down a third time. The entire time they were prepping him his prep team babbled about how terrible John looked – at first he was offended and called them out – “Hey! I can hear you, you know.” – but then he realized that it wasn’t him they found hideous, it was just that he didn’t meet the Capitol standard that they did. He apologized after a moment, and the team forgave him.

When they were finally done they left him naked to wait for someone named Cinna, who would serve as John’s stylist. John thought about whether or not he should pull on the thin robe that the prep team allowed him to wear on and off, but in the end he remembered that Mycroft said it would be better just to do as they said, and since they didn’t say to wear the robe, he was without it. Still feeling exposed, he cupped his hands around his genitals so it wouldn’t be the first thing Cinna saw when they came in. In a matter of five minutes, a dark-skinned man with golden eyeliner and multiple ear piercings entered the room. He didn’t look as wild as the prep team, which John was relieved about. In fact, he looked almost human.

“You must be John Watson,” he said as he came in, unfazed by John’s nakedness. “My name is Cinna,” he told him, shaking the hand that John had previously used to cover up the least amount of his sensitive areas. John was amazed at his normalcy.

“Hello,” John managed.

“May I?” Cinna asked, gesturing slightly to John. He nodded, and then he was under inspection. He circled him slowly, and John wondered what he could possibly be looking at when Cinna gave him his robe. “Alright, if you would like to join me, in the next room, we can talk about your outfit,” he informed John, gesturing to the door. Cinna led him to a room with two red velvet couches, a luxurious lunch on a coffee table, and a window that gave John a view of the Capitol. He couldn’t help but be impressed.

“Wow,” John breathed, and Cinna allowed him to take it in before letting him choose a seat. Cinna sat across from him.

“How do you feel, John?” he asked, kindly.

“Nervous,” John admitted. “I’ve never actually had a...stylist, before. And I’ve seen costumes for the opening Ceremonies before – some of them aren’t that great,” he informed him, and though he wasn’t trying to be funny, Cinna chuckled.

“Well, Connie and I can assure you we won’t put you and Mary into some stupid costume.”

The costumes Cinna and Mary’s stylist, Connie, created for the opening ceremony were amazing. District 12’s main industry was mining, but Cinna took it a step further and made John and Mary’s costumes all about coal. He dressed them in black – John in a black suit and Mary in a black dress. Attached to the shoulder straps of Mary’s dress and wrists and the shoulders of John’s suit was a beautiful cape made of a material that looked like flames when in motion. Mary’s ensemble made her extremely attractive, and therefore even harder for John to stay away from. He liked her, but Mycroft was right: even if their relationship meant nothing more than just a one-time fling, it couldn’t last, for Mary and John would still be pitted against each other and expected to kill one another for the Capitol’s entertainment.

“You’re looking handsome, John,” Mary said as John entered the stables where the chariots were kept, donning his new suit.

“You’re not looking too bad, yourself,” John replied, trying to sound casual.

Cinna and Connie took a moment to explain what would happen, even though John and Mary both knew from seeing so many of the Hunger Games’ opening ceremonies on their television at home: the back of the remake center contained the stables (so there would be no chance of any eager outsider seeing the tributes whilst they were transported to the stables), and the stables opened out into the streets, where the tributes would ride on the horse-drawn chariots until they reached President Snow’s mansion, where President Snow would give his annual speech, greeting the newest tributes and wishing them luck in the Games. After that, the Chariots would ride to the training center, where the tributes would dismount their horses and meet with Mrs. Hudson and the other escorts to find their new living quarters. Even though John knew most of the process already, hearing it laid out like that made his stomach clench.

This was really happening. To him.

Cinna and Connie then wished John and Mary good luck, and left to take their places in a special box, reserved for stylists and prep teams – the mentors and escorts had similar special box, but that was located at President Snow’s mansion.

Once Cinna and Connie left, John and Mary looked at each other, and it was obvious that neither of them knew exactly what to say about their situation, so John said the first logical thing he could think of.

“Ladies first,” he said, and helped Mary into the chariot, and followed after her.

* * *

Sherlock paced the Watsons’ living room, waiting for the tribute Parade to begin. The three Watsons sat on the couch in front of him, trying to watch Claudius Templesmith, Caesar Flickerman, and the Head Gamemaker, Seneca Crane, talk about the tributes and the Games that were ahead for them. Every time they mentioned the “Watson boy from District Twelve” or showed a clip of John, Sherlock would pause, and then continue pacing when he got the gist of what was being said.

“Sherlock, please sit down,” Harry told him, saying what everyone else was thinking. “You’re stressing me out.”

“Not until I see John,” Sherlock said. “I need to know what he’s wearing.”

“What does that have to do with your deductions?” Mr. Watson asked, nodding to Sherlock’s notebook on his chair.

“Nothing – this basically just shows what the stylists are like – and I’m not looking at the stylists – I could care less about the stylists. I’m worried about what style John’s wearing.”

District 12 was basically the laughing stock of Panem – most years the tribute Parade was a source of embarrassment for those tributes. Mycroft’s wasn’t so bad – he looked a bit like a coal miner, actually – but the year after Mycroft came home, his first Games as a mentor, a particularly cruel stylist was hired and made the District 12 tributes wear absolutely nothing, and instead covered them head-to-toe in coal dust. They were certainly remembered, but that didn’t mean much seeing as they were the first two killed in the blood bath. Sherlock was dreading this look making a comeback exclusively for John Watson.

“And here they are!” Caesar Flickerman called, and Sherlock whipped around to see the 12 Chariots that carried the tributes.

The outfits were absurd, but that’s how they were every year. Jim Moriarty and Irene Adler looked like a king and queen with crowns and tiaras and red robes. They both looked extremely attractive, and this would probably get them plenty of sponsors. The most absurd this year, Sherlock believed, went to three districts: District 7, the lumber industry, looked like two trees were riding a chariot, and Districts 10 and 11, the livestock and agriculture industries, looked like their stylists teamed up: both of them wore suits exclusively out of food; 10 out of meat and 11 out of vegetation. What was sad though, Sherlock couldn’t help but think, was the fact that that was probably the most food any of those tributes had ever been given in their whole lives, and they were to wear it.

“And finally, bringing up the rear: John Watson and Mary Morstan of District Twelve!” Caesar announced, and Sherlock held his breath as the emerged.

John Watson looked amazing.

He wore a black suit with a red cape that flew behind him as the horse dragged the car around – he looked like a coal on fire, which Sherlock guessed was rather the point. Mary was having fun with her cape, which, unlike John’s, was attached to her wrists. She held her hands up above her head and let her cape billow out behind her, and John waved at the crowd. The crowd went wild for them. Everyone in the Watson household was able to breathe easily – or, as easily as they could – again. The cameras followed them as they rode through the City Circle and to the training center, stopping only once towards the end of the Parade to hear a word from the president of Panem, President Snow, who basically said the same thing every year, and ending his speech with the ever-famous phrase, “Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be ever in your favor.” Sherlock’s eyes never strayed from John’s figure.

When the broadcast ended, Sherlock was on his feet and on his way out.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” Mrs. Watson asked as Sherlock made his way to the door.

“Yeah – sorry, gotta dash. I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry,” he said, barely keeping it together as he opened the door and left the house.

Even though it was dark out, and Sherlock and John had never been beyond the fence at night, Sherlock ran and climbed through the fence. With accursed tears blinding his eyes, he ran through the woods, on a search.

John had to get sponsors.

John had to live.

John had to _know._

And Sherlock was going to stop at nothing until that happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter comes out March 14th c:


	6. Aim to Fail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay; life has been happening and I totally forgot! But I'm here (and so is Chapter 6) and that's what matters! Thanks to EsteCuthalion for getting on my ass and reminding me to post this chapter!

John and the other tributes were sent to the training center after the opening ceremony, where they would live and focus on discovering or sharpening their skills until the Games actually commenced. As the tributes waited for the elevators Mrs. Hudson explained to John and Mary that each floor belonged to each District, except for the lobby, which was the ground floor – District 1 got the first floor, District 2 got second, and so on until District 12, who got the top floor. John was thinking about the next few days when something hit him.

“What about the training room?” he asked. “This  _is_  the training center, after all,” he said, and Mary nodded in agreement. He heard a scoff, and glanced around to see Jim Moriarty watching him and Mary.

“Hm? Oh, yes – that’s just below our feet,” Mrs. Hudson explained. “But you’ll see that tomorrow.”

The tributes were able to socialize for the first time since they were reaped. John saw a boy from District 6 speaking with the two tributes from 10, and little Molly Hooper from District 8 trying and failing to join in. The six Careers from Districts 1, 2, and 4 all grouped themselves together – Irene Alder stripped herself naked as soon as they had all entered the lobby – John stared for a few seconds before averting his eyes, suddenly feeling exposed himself. He never discovered the reason for her actions – he figured she was proudly displaying her lack of shame. Mary and John basically stayed to themselves, only speaking to people who approached them. At one point, John found himself shaking hands with the boy tribute from District 9, Victor Trevor, who was dressed in a tan suit that seemed to have stalks of grain growing out of the cuffs of his shirt and trousers. John backhandedly noticed that with his height and blonde hair, he himself looked like part of the field his clothes were making.

“You looked really great tonight,” he told them, his eyes assessing John a little longer than Mary.

“Thanks, so did you,” Mary replied, and John nodded in agreement.

Victor scoffed, but accepted the compliment.

“See you in training, yeah?” John asked.

“Yeah, good luck,” Victor told him, beginning to move on to another group.

“Thanks, you too,” John said, shaking his hand again, feeling bad that someone so nice was being forced to die like this. It was then he could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head: “Don’t trust anyone.” Suddenly, John was wary of Victor, who suddenly went from just being nice to planning to win by lowering everyone’s guard with his false kindness.

As soon as John and Mary reached the top floor of the training center, though he was invited to dinner, John declined and went to his bedroom instead. He took a shower, washing off the make-up that was applied to his face and scrubbing his hair until his scalp felt raw. The shower’s water pouring down his face almost made him forget that he was crying, but not quite.

After his fingers and toes were more than wrinkly, he dressed himself into the first pair of cotton pajamas he could find and curled into the silk sheets of his new bed, allowing himself to really think for the first time since he was reaped.

He missed Sherlock, desperately. He wanted to be home and he wanted to see his best friend again. Sherlock was always so angry during the Games, and even though the Games were required viewing, he was known to skip the broadcasts. He wondered if Sherlock had seen him tonight, and what he thought of him now. He wondered about him, and his family. Were they watching the Games together?

John clamped his eyes shut. He couldn’t just lie there obsessing over his family and his friend – he needed to focus – he needed to outlive twenty-three people and get back to his family – get back to Sherlock. He opened his eyes, rolled over, stared at the ceiling, and thought about his options: he didn’t have many.

There was a gentle knock on the door, and John rolled over again.

“Whatever it is the answer is no thank you,” he informed the visitor.

“Even to cake? We saved you a slice,” the guest said, beginning to open the door, and John sat up to find Mycroft Holmes standing in the doorway, holding two plates containing slices of cake.

“I said no thank you,” John snapped at his mentor.

“Yes, and I do recall that I said cake. It’s Red Velvet,” Mycroft replied, stepping into the room and gently closing the door with his foot. John cursed himself for not locking the door. “Mrs. Hudson and Cinna are wondering why you’ve insisted on going to bed so early.”

“Because I’m fucking tired, Mycroft,” John informed him, lying back down on the bed.

“But wouldn’t you like to see the opening ceremony?” Mycroft asked as he sat on the end of John’s bed.

“No.”

“Good, I don’t either. Come, John. Sit up,” Mycroft urged, and John obliged, finally accepting the slice of cake. They ate in silence for a moment. “The only reason I like the Capitol is because of this right here,” he informed John.

“It is good,” he agreed, nodding and taking another bite. “Thank you for saving it for me.”

“But of course,” Mycroft replied. “Now tell me: what are you thinking?”

It took John a few moments to gather his thoughts.

“...I...I have no idea. Basically just that I need to get home,” John finally forced out.

“That’s always a good place to begin. Have you thought about how you’re going to make that happen?” Mycroft asked.

“I was trying to,” John said.

“Well, training does begin tomorrow,” Mycroft informed him. “Maybe you could start by looking weak.”

“What do you mean?” John asked, finishing his cake and placing his plate on Mycroft’s already empty one.

“I mean the element of surprise, John. What were you good at when you were at home?”

“Well, we used to throw rocks when we were kids, so... I’ve been told I have good aim.” John revealed.

“Then perhaps you have a talent for knife-throwing. I also know for a fact you’re knowledgeable in wound care. When you’re in a group training session with the other tributes, don’t look into knife-throwing, focus on the things you know you’re not too good at, like knot-tying. If you are faced with nothing to do, extend your knowledge of medical care, and after that, if you want to try your hand at knife-throwing during group training, my advice would be to aim to fail,” Mycroft suggested.

“Aim to fail – I don’t understand,” John said, feeling stupid.

“Imagine you’re facing a target, John. Where would you aim for?” Mycroft asked.

“The bull’s-eye?”

“Don’t,” Mycroft ordered. “If you hit that target, you’ll make yourself a threat to the other tributes. Those Careers will make sure that you’re down and out during the bloodbath.”

“So I should aim for something that isn’t the bull’s-eye?” John asked.

“Exactly. For instance, two inches above the right shoulder, or an inch away from the left ankle. Of course, when you get judged for sponsors, you will have to hit those bull’s-eyes as you normally would. I kept my ruse through the judging, and you know how many sponsors that got me.” John nodded, mulling the instructions over. “Are you still tired, John?” Mycroft asked, after a moment.

“Yeah, very,” John replied.

“I’m tired, as well,” Mycroft said quietly. John was about to ask what he meant, but Mycroft went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “You should get some sleep, then,” he informed John with a tight-lipped grin, and got off the bed. “Tomorrow is going to be a big day for you. Shall we expect you for breakfast?”

“Yeah, of course,” John replied, and they said their goodbyes and Mycroft left him alone.

* * *

The next morning Mycroft met with Mary and John for breakfast, and while John and Mary both ate slowly and lightly, Mycroft had second helpings. When they were finished, as Avoxes cleared the table, Mycroft spoke to them.

“You two will have four days of training – three days of group sessions with the other tributes, then, the next evening, you’ll show your talents to the Gamemakers,” he explained.

“That’s when we’re judged,” John guessed.

The Gamemakers would judge the tributes’ skills and rank them – their ranks would be broadcast to the nation, and this would be the basis of who people chose to sponsor. The ranking system was simple enough: they were ranked from one to twelve, the higher the number one received the better they were. Mycroft received a six, but as he proved, that was only for show. John found himself thinking that Sherlock would undoubtedly get a twelve as Mycroft explained the judging system to him and Mary. John wondered what he would get.

“I obviously tried to look non-threatening until the Games began. This got me only one sponsor, and I learned that it’s better to have sponsors than have my competitors believe I wasn’t going to be a problem for them,” Mycroft concluded. “I want you both to hide your talents from the other tributes and let them shine for the Gamemakers. Of course, you can choose to follow or disregard my advice. The Avoxes have laid out your training outfits in your respective rooms, and Mrs. Hudson will bring you down to the training Rooms at ten o’clock, which is...” he consulted his watch. “...in less than a half-hour.” He looked at them both. “Good luck,” he wished, and dismissed them.

John and Mary walked back together to their rooms, side by side, in anxiety-ridden silence. As they walked, Mary’s hand brushed up against John’s, and he held it, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. She held his hand back, returning the squeeze. They only let go when they reached their destination.

“That Victor guy was right, you know,” she informed John, quietly, a small smile playing on her lips. “You know, from District Nine? The grain-suit?” she reminded him.

“Yes, I remember him,” John said.

“You  _did_  look nice,” she repeated, and it only struck John then that he never saw himself in the opening ceremony. He didn’t really care, though.

“Thanks, you did too,” John returned the compliment, then they went their separate ways, into their rooms.

As John opened the door to his room he saw someone he thought he’d never see again: Harry Watson. Her hair was draped over her face and she was wearing a white tunic; she was laying out John’s clothes on his bed. John inhaled, ready to call out her name, but the girl straightened up and John saw her face.

She wasn’t Harry – her nose was too round, her lips too full. Freckles dotted her face like stars. She was an Avox. Now that they saw each other face-to-face, John even figured out that her hair was not as dark as Harry’s was. The girl’s wide, chocolate-brown, un-Harry-like eyes stared at John, and John stared right back at her, distraught.

“I – I’m sorry –” John began, and the girl nodded, keeping her head bowed, and tried to leave the room with John blocking the only way out. He moved out of her way quickly, and she dashed out, and John apologized again.

After a moment, he closed the door and crossed the room to inspect the clothes the Avox had laid out for him, wondering how she got there. When Sherlock and John were ten, shortly after they discovered they could climb through the fence and into the woods, Sherlock relayed to John what Mycroft had revealed to him about the Capitol, and how Avoxes weren’t allowed to speak were and forced to become servants because they broke a rule against the Capitol.

“So shouldn’t we be Avoxes?” John had asked. “Since we’re out here?”

“Only if we get caught,” Sherlock had replied.

Four years later, Mycroft let them in a small detail he conveniently left out when Sherlock was ten: it wasn’t that the Avoxes weren’t  _allowed_  to speak, it was that they  _couldn’t._  The Capitol removed their tongues as part of the punishment. John wondered if she had found a way out of her District and hadn’t been as careful as Sherlock and John had been. Guilt swept over him as the realization hit him that he could’ve very easily been one of the Avoxes serving the tributes of the 74th Annual Hunger Games, instead of being the one served.

He shook the thought away, and changed out of the clothes he was wearing and into the clothes the Avox laid out for him.

John had woken up with a bit of a stomachache that morning, but it was nothing compared to the one he had when the elevators opened at the training Room. The room turned out to be a huge gymnasium with a small balcony built into the wall where the Gamemakers could watch the tributes train. The tributes from District 12 were early, but even so all the other Districts were there, seemingly waiting for John and Mary to arrive. Everyone was dressed in the same outfit: tight, black shirts that displayed their last names on the back and their District number on the front and the back in grey lettering, and tight black pants and shoes that weren’t quite combat boots but also weren’t regular sneakers, either.

Everyone was gathered in a semicircle in the center of the gymnasium, all focused on a woman – the head trainer by the name of Atala. After introducing herself, she explained the training schedule and rules they were all to follow. The Skill Experts that were in charge of each station would remain at their assigned stations all day, while the tributes were allowed to move from station to station as they saw fit. tributes were not allowed to practice their combat skills on each other, so there were assistants who would serve as dueling partners when requested. There were stations centered around fighting techniques and survival skills, and Atala insisted that the tributes not all jump for the fighting techniques and ignore the survival skills. She also informed the group of tributes that today, and only today, they would be called one by one to take a picture of them for the Capitol’s records.

When she finished her instructions, just about everyone jumped for the fighting stations, save for John, “YAO” and “POWERS,” both from District 5, Molly Hooper, and Victor Trevor. Yao went up to the climbing station, Powers went for the pool, Molly went to medical after a moment of standing there clueless, Victor went for snares, and John went for the Gauntlet – the obstacle course.

John went from survival station to survival station and learned everything he could about fire-making, snares and knot-tying, camouflage, shelter building, and edible plants and insects. He excelled above and beyond anything the Skill Expert had seen in the medical station, even when the Skill Expert gave him the challenge of building a tourniquet out of sticks and leaves alone. Even though he was interested in what he was learning, his eyes continued to stray to the knife-throwing station. He wanted to try it out, desperately – he’d never thrown a knife before, only stones and sticks when he was in the woods beyond the fence with Sherlock. He wanted to know if he was as good as Sherlock thought he was – as good as Mycroft suggested he could be.

Mary and John only joined up for lunch in the cafeteria, which was located just outside of the training Room, and were surprisingly accompanied by Victor Trevor. Mary and Victor really hit it off, while John assessed the rest of the cafeteria and the alliances that were being made. All of the careers flocked to one table, and the boy from District 6 (“LESTRADE”, according to the name on the back of his shirt) was with the two tributes from District 10 (“DONOVAN” and “ANDERSON”), while everyone else either sat by themselves or with the other tribute from their District.

When he wasn’t looking around at everyone he would soon be pitted against or eating John was thinking about how his odds of winning were, for lack of a better phrase, definitely not in his favor. The Careers were monstrous and also somewhat terribly beautiful – they’d get their share of sponsors and then some. The Careers also tended to make the Cornucopia their own, which meant little to no chance of John getting any weapons. As he learned that morning, he wasn’t that agile or fast, but he guessed he always knew that – Sherlock taught him that every time they ran through the woods beyond the fence.

John also thought about Sherlock as he slowly chewed on the Capitol’s food. He thought of the last thing Sherlock had told him: “I don’t know if I was ever going to put this into words but since – since there’s a chance we won’t see each other again I want you to know –” John hadn’t thought of it much since leaving District 12, but now that he had a bit of time on his hands and he wasn’t only thinking of himself and the fact that he was probably going to die in a few days, he could think of Sherlock a little more, and what he was trying to say. He had theories, but they were only ideas, and there was no way to clarify...not unless he won.

Sometimes Victor or Mary would call John back to the present.

“Are you okay?” Victor asked, and John looked up from his plate.

“Me? Yeah, fine,” John replied.

“Thinking about the best way to kill us, right?” Victor asked, the left side of his mouth curling into a half-smile.

“Something like that,” John joked.

“Don’t think about it too much, you’ll hurt yourself,” Victor warned, passing John a biscuit from the bread bowl in the middle of the table.

“Right, don’t over-analyze, thanks,” John said, taking the biscuit.

The training session didn’t last until before dinner, and though John wanted to, he didn’t stray for the weaponry stations; he would save that for the next day.

Dinner with Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson was full of talking about the day; who did what and where and when and with whom. Mycroft promised to meet with Mary and John separately to go over specifics, but now it was strictly general. John learned that Mary stayed away from the Careers, though John could imagine she wasn’t exactly hiding her skills from them.

After dinner John was sent to his room, and Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson met with Mary. John laid on his bed, trying not to think of anything until Mrs. Hudson, the little old ball of artificial sunshine she was, cheerfully called him out to the main room.

John sat in a chair facing Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson, who were both sitting on the sofa across from him. John was sort of expecting to talk to Mycroft privately so they wouldn’t have to act like they just met a few days ago, but he didn’t make it known.

“Hello, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft greeted him as John sat down. “Tell us, how was your training session?”

“It was good,” John replied. “I mainly focused on the survival technique stations, as you and I had discussed, Mr. Holmes. I’m planning on going for more of the combat stations tomorrow, and then touching up on whatever I need to the day after.”

“That’s very organized,” Mrs. Hudson complimented.

“Very smart, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft grinned, and John couldn’t help but beam at his approval – the first time he truly smiled since being reaped into the Games. “Did you find yourself excelling at anything?”

“Well, there was the medical station, but I don’t think anyone noticed. Everyone’s sort of been counting me out, but I’m guessing that’s a good thing? I don’t get noticed during training, the Careers don’t think I’m a threat.”

“That’s true,” Mycroft agreed.

“What about the evaluation with the Gamemakers?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“Well, even if I get a nice score – a seven or eight or something – there’s no way for anyone to know what I did, is that right?”

“That is correct,” Mycroft assured him and Mrs. Hudson nodded in agreement.

“Then even if I do well, they won’t know how. They’ll have no way of knowing how to hurt me. So, when I’m being judged, I’ll do the best I can.”

“That’s a very nice plan, John. Any ideas of what to do when you’re in the Arena? Any potential allies?” Mycroft asked.

John took a moment to think about his answer. He wasn’t really sure what to do once he was in the Arena – perhaps he could just wing it; maybe he’d ask Mycroft about how he went about it later when they were alone. He thought about his allies, or his potential allies, and then named the only tributes he had talked to since arriving at the Capitol.

“Well, there’s Mary...and Victor Trevor, from District Nine... But then again, that’s everyone I’ve talked to,” John admitted.

“Perhaps you should branch out,” Mycroft suggested. “Don’t give anyone reason to dislike you. Having anyone by your side could help you immensely. But of course, that’s all up to you – you could try going in alone...”

“No, no. Allies are...allies are good. Strength in numbers and all that.”

“And even if you decide against having allies, you should still be likable,” Mrs. Hudson recommended.

“Correct – if you’re kind they’ll think you’re an easy kill –”

“But I’m not an easy kill,” John said, and it was then his voice betrayed him, revealing the fear he felt; the fear he was doing well to hide, until then.

Though it was barely traceable – or at least undetectable to Mrs. Hudson – John saw Mycroft’s mask wear away. In the moment of emotional nakedness, Mycroft began to breathe John’s name, about to tell him whatever he felt John needed to hear, but then, as quickly as it left, Mycroft’s emotional barrier was back, and he spoke. “Of course you’re not, Mr. Watson,” he assured him. “Of course you’re not. You’re going to prove them wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted March 28th :D


	7. Potential Allies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for the delay alsjkdf

John Watson stood before the human-shaped targets of the knife-throwing station, feeling determined. He had visited every weaponry station twice that day, finding nothing he particularly excelled at, and now John was extremely close to trying his hand at the one thing both he and Mycroft hoped he had a talent in. There was only one person between him and his potential destiny, and that was “HALSTEAD,” one of the Careers from District 4. He watched as she rapidly fired her knives into the targets, many of which were plunging deep into the bulls-eyes painted onto the heads and chests of each target.

“You’re really good,” John complimented her when she ran out of knives. She was a career tribute, yet he tried to be friendly with her, like he had been with everyone he came into contact with.

“Thanks,” she replied, not even glancing back at him as the Skill Expert retrieved the knives for her.

“Maybe you could teach me a thing or two,” John added with a chuckle, but Halstead only turned in John’s direction when she heard one of the other Careers call her name.

“Kate!” Irene Alder from District 2 called, and Kate Halstead turned, looking beyond John to the other side of the center to the Gauntlet, where Irene was. “Come on!” she called, and Kate abandoned her knives for her.

John watched as Kate strode across the gymnasium. As she approached Irene, she spoke.

“I hit a few bull’s-eyes,” she announced.

“That’s nice, sweetie,” Irene replied dismissively, and with that brought Kate in for a deep kiss. John looked away, feeling his ears turning red, and, after a moment, he took a deep breath and stared back at the targets.

This was it – his time to shine, or his time to discover that he should go after a different weapon of choice. John reached over to the knife tray beside him and retrieved a small hand knife. He held it, getting a feel for it; how it balanced. He was just about to throw it when he heard his name.

“Hey, Watson.” John jumped, spinning around and finding the Lestrade boy from District 6 before him.

“Hi,” John replied, smiling politely down at him.

“I couldn’t help but notice what you did there,” he said John, nodding over in Kate’s general direction. “This isn’t really the time for that, is it?” he asked lowly.

“I was not – I was, you know. Just looking for potential allies...” John replied, shrugging.

“Well, you’re in luck; so am I,” he announced, putting out his hand for John to shake. “Greg Lestrade, fifteen, District Six,” he introduced himself. John tried not to appear emotionally tortured when Greg revealed he was the same age as Harry.

“John Watson, eighteen, District Twelve,” John replied, shaking Greg’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, John,” Greg said, beaming. “So, what can you do?” he asked, nodding toward the targets. John turned around and surveyed the targets again as Greg stood beside him.

“Well...” John glanced at Greg. He was slightly muscular – like someone who played some sort of sport as a hobby; he wore his dark brown hair flopped down in front of his face and spent a lot of time running his hand through his hair to get it out of his face, or at least he did now that the Capitol had control over how he presented himself. He seemed trustworthy, or harmless enough. “...I don’t really know, to be honest,” John admitted.

“I guess we’ll find out together, then,” Greg said happily, nodding toward the targets again.

John took a breath, evaluating the targets once more, suddenly feeling more nervous than determined. He now had an audience.

“Right. Okay,” he leaned over to Greg and spoke quietly so only he could hear. “Two inches above the right shoulder.”

“What?” Greg asked, looking over at him, but it was too late. John straightened up, breathed in, and whipped the knife across the station, into the padding around the second target – two inches above the right shoulder. John couldn’t help but find himself beaming, relieved. He was a perfect shot.

“Nice!” Greg exclaimed loudly, impressed. John could suddenly feel eyes on him – the eyes of the Careers, mapping out the best way to kill him. John was about ready to make an obscene gesture to Greg Lestrade’s face and go on his way, but Greg could feel them, too. “I mean, I guess. You didn’t really hit the target there,” he continued, and just like that the eyes were off of them. “Try again,” he urged in a tone that made only John aware that he was excited for him to do it again.

John picked up another knife.

“An inch away from the left ankle,” John muttered, and threw it. It struck the padding deeply, just like the first one, a single inch away from the left ankle. “Goddamnit,” John deadpanned, trying to act like that wasn’t exactly what he wanted to see.

“Can I try?” Greg asked, and John passed him a knife.

Together they went through the supply of knives at the station – John hitting almost every target he made for himself, and Greg trying and failing to hit his. In such a short time, John unexpectedly found himself considering Greg Lestrade to be an ally. There was just one problem.

“Hey, Greg?”

“Hm?”

“Where are your friends? From District Ten?” John asked. “I didn’t really think you’d leave their sides...”

“Oh, they’re over there, with the spears,” Greg said, pointing a few stations away, where a dark-skinned, curly-haired girl and a pale, dark-haired boy with a nose he hadn’t quite grown into yet were throwing spears at a target. “Want to go meet them?” he asked.

“Sure,” John replied with a shrug, and so they made their way to the spear station.

As they walked, they passed the sword station, where John spotted Sebastian Moran slicing the limbs and head off of the human-sized practice mannequin as Jim Moriarty watched him from the sidelines. Greg noticed John staring.

“They’re scary,” he noted.

“You’re telling me,” John replied. Sebastian Moran was only a hair taller than Victor Trevor, light-haired, and very muscular, but not beefy. Jim Moriarty was a small guy with dark eyes and a smirk on his face that made John feel uneasy. These two were prime examples of Careers – Careers that would undoubtedly take the Arena by storm and win the Games.

“We can beat ‘em.” John looked over at Greg, and he looked up at John. “Well, you can at least, I’m sure,” he muttered his assurance.

“Thanks,” John mumbled back, and then they finally approached the two tributes from District 10.

“Hey guys,” Greg said, and the two teenagers looked up from their training. “This is John Watson – eighteen, District Twelve,” he said, jabbing a thumb in John’s direction. “He’s a good kid. He’s gonna train with us.”

“Hullo,” John said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and then putting his hand out for the two to shake.

The girl was the first one to approach him.

“I think we already knew his District number, Greg. I’m Sally Donovan – fourteen,” she said, shaking John’s hand. “And this is Philip Anderson, thirteen.”

“Pleasure,” John said, nodding to each of them, and they nodded back.

As the four tributes moved together from station to station with his new-found alliance John couldn’t help but feel he was babysitting them. His eyes strayed over to Victor Trevor, who was occupied at the medical station, wishing to be allied with someone his age.

He brought this age difference up to Mycroft that night, after Mrs. Hudson and Mary had gone to bed.

“They’re  _kids_ , Mycroft,” John informed him.

“As are you, John,” he reminded him.

“Yeah, but...one of them is thirteen. And that Greg kid is Harry’s age.” John put his elbows on his knees and ran his hands through his hair, distraught. “They’re not bad people. Neither are Mary and Victor. None of them deserve this.”

“Neither do you,” Mycroft informed him, and John covered his face, and then clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers, and looked at Mycroft.

“What should I do?” he asked.

“Whatever you feel is best. You know how I feel about making personal attachments here, but as I’ve said all along it is perfectly alright to disregard my advice.”

“Yeah, but we all know that’s a terrible idea,” John informed him, sitting up, and Mycroft smiled. “So, form alliances but don’t care for them?”

“That’s what I would advise.”

“Right,” John said, nodding to himself. “I’ll be nice but stay emotionally detached and...hope that I don’t have to be the one to...you know, in the Arena.” Mycroft nodded in agreement, and then they remained silent as John stood up and walked over to the wall of windows, showing off the busy Capitol below – the one place that never seemed to sleep. “How do you think he’s doing, Mycroft?”

“Who?”

“Sherlock,” John replied, saying his name for the first time out loud since leaving District 12. He didn’t expect his voice to crack like it did, and continued to stare determinedly out the window as Mycroft stood up and crossed the room to join him.

“I imagine he’s probably burned down the house in frustration and has been forced to live with your family again,” Mycroft chuckled sadly at his own joke as he closed the distance between them and stood next to John, also looking outside into the night.

“I miss him,” John revealed. “I miss everyone. I want to go home – I want all of this to stop. I just keep looking around and I keep thinking ‘I’m going to have to kill this kid’ or ‘this kid’s going to kill me’ – I never wanted this.”

“No one does.”

“They do,” John said, nodding down at the streets below. Growing frustrated, he wiped tears away from his eyes. “Do you think I can do this?” he asked suddenly. “Do you  _really_  think I can?”

“I have no doubt,” Mycroft assured him. “You should get some rest, John. If you need me you know where you can find me,” he said, and with that left John before the window, staring out.

He felt it beginning. Mycroft was detaching himself from John – he didn’t have any confidence in him after all. His entire being was based off of that one motto he coined years ago: “All lives end, all hearts are broken; caring is not an advantage.” If he really had confidence in John he wouldn’t be listening to his own words, but he was, and John could tell.

He turned around, deciding that two could play at that game, and discovered the ginger Avox from yesterday standing before the coffee table, cleaning rag and solution in hand. John found himself at a loss of words, and so they stared at each other for a moment, until he regained his voice.

“Hi – um – no requests. I mean – damnit,” he tried again. “I’m sorry for yesterday – for scaring you. You just...you look like my sister. Kind of. Not really. You both have red hair and you’re both about the same height – she’s fifteen. I was startled – I’m really scared, and really I just want to see someone who still loves me. I don’t even know why I’m – I’m sorry. I’m really,  _truly_  sorry,” he stammered, hoping she understood how terrible he felt for her. “And I hope this right here doesn’t get you into trouble. And if it does I’m sorry for that too. I just...don’t know...anything...anymore,” he concluded, and looked up at her. The Avox, who was staring at him with her mouth slightly agape this whole time closed her mouth and nodded. “Right, then. Goodnight,” he said, and walked by her and down the hall to his room.

John took a long, cold shower and changed into pajamas, then crawled into bed where he endured nightmares of Sebastian Moran slicing the limbs off of thirteen-year-old mannequins, an Avox-like Mycroft, and Jim Moriarty’s smirk. John Watson woke up the next morning calling out for Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

There was no news from John, and there wouldn’t be for a few days – not until the Gamemakers judged their abilities the day after next. While John trained for his time in the Arena, Sherlock spent his waking hours either watching re-runs and interviews between Caesar Flickerman and Seneca Crane and taking notes on anything useful they said about the tributes, organizing his notes into various notebooks, or smashing plates. He rarely ate, but he found himself sleeping much more often than he ever had before John was entered into the Games. Sherlock didn’t feel like he was mentally pushing himself further than he had before, so he assumed that the only reason he was sleeping more was that John kept his life interesting – with John not around, he was incredibly bored. Either that, or he was using sleep to hide from the reality that faced him when he awoke.

He wasn’t completely on his own, of course; Harry was around. When she wasn’t at Clara’s or at her own home, she was sat at the Holmes’ kitchen table, staying out of Sherlock’s way as he wrote notes and went through the ones he didn’t need. She told him once she had other friends, but she didn’t really waltz into their homes like she did with him and Clara. “Consider yourself lucky; you’ve made the cut,” she had joked, and Sherlock couldn’t help but feel a little touched.

Most nights, though, Sherlock was by himself, sipping tea out of a bowl as he wrote and rewrote the same things – warnings for John that he would never read, underlining the biggest warning he could never say before John was shipped to the Arena: WATCH FOR JIM MORIARTY. There was something that Sherlock didn’t like about him – he had never heard the boy speak or saw him on screen for more than five minutes total, but  _something_  about him couldn’t be right. But everyone, even Flickerman and Crane, adored the little shit. Sherlock felt something like second-hand jealousy. They couldn’t see that something was wrong with Jim Moriarty, one of the Careers from District 1, and this blinded them even further to not see how fantastic John Watson, the lowly boy from District 12, was. Sherlock hoped that at least John could tell that Moriarty wasn’t all everyone thought he was.

One of the note-taking nights was very lonely for Sherlock, or at least the rain made him think he was lonely. At about midnight there was a knock on his front door. Sherlock sat up and listened, and the knocking became urgent. Sherlock downed his almost-empty bowl and went to the door and opened it, revealing Harry Watson, holding her overnight bag, absolutely soaked, but that didn’t stop Sherlock from noticing that she was sobbing.

“Harry –?” Sherlock tried to ask, but Harry cut him off.

“Clara and I broke up!” she cried.

Of course – he should’ve known immediately. Harry had told him she was going to Clara’s that day and spending the night there – he should’ve picked it up the moment she knocked, not to mention when he found that she was crying.

“What happened?” he asked as he let Harry in and closed the door behind her.

“I don’t know!” she sobbed. “She seemed kinda pissed today and she wouldn’t tell me why and her mom asked about the Games and so I talked about that and answered her questions and Clara seemed even  _more_  pissed so after her parents went to bed I asked her what was wrong and she just started freaking out at me and then I broke up with her and stormed out and I don’t even know what I just did! She – She couldn’t deal with everything –”

“With what?” Sherlock asked.

“JOHN, Sherlock! He’s fucking _dying,_  remember!?” she shouted, and they stared at each other for a moment. Neither of them had voiced the obvious like this: John was indeed dying, starting from the very moment he was reaped into the Hunger Games.

Sherlock tried not to show how upset he was by her choice of words.

“Tedious, stupid,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

 _“What?!”_  Harry roared.

“It’s stupid that she thinks that John being in the Games affects her more than it affects you,” he replied simply, and Harry’s anger cooled down in moments back to just generally upset. “In other news, the kettle just boiled,” he went on, and began to lead her to the kitchen.

“I need something stronger than tea,” Harry decided as she followed him.

“What are you proposing?” Sherlock asked, and Harry rolled her eyes.

“What do you think? Alcohol,” she replied.

Sherlock thought about what Harry was asking for. John would most likely kill him if he found out that he let Harry drink, but Harry’s life was sort of spiraling without it, anyway. If he kept tabs on how much she was drinking he was sure it wouldn’t get out of hand.

“Okay, we’ll both split a bottle of gin and call it a night. Sound good?” Sherlock asked, and Harry agreed. As she sat at the table and took a discarded notebook to flip through, Sherlock retrieved the bottle from on top of the cabinets by climbing onto the counter.

“Why are they all the way up there, anyway?” she asked as Sherlock climbed back down and opened it.

“It was Mycroft’s idea of hiding,” he shrugged as he passed it to her and letting her take the first swig, sitting down again.

In moments, Harry put the bottle between them, sputtering.

“Shit!” she finally managed to choke out. “It tastes like fire!”

“You don’t have to drink it, you know,” Sherlock informed her, picking up the bottle and eyeing the liquid inside through the spout.

“I know,” she assured him as he took a swig for himself. She was right – his throat burned as the liquid ran down his esophagus. He felt the effect already – it wasn’t like a high or how he expected being drunk felt.

“God,” he sputtered, passing it back to her. “It’s certainly an…acquired taste…” he decided as Harry took another big gulp of the stuff.

“It’s getting better, I think,” she informed him, going back for another taste. It was then Sherlock started to feel the warmth of the drink – the fire spreading through his veins.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed as she passed him back the bottle. It continued like this for a few minutes, passing the bottle back and forth, until Harry finished it off. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“Good – better, I mean. I like the warmth,” Harry said. “God, I don’t even know why I was upset – Clara was a bitch, anyway.”

“She must’ve been,” Sherlock agreed. There was a moment of silence between them. “I miss him,” he announced. “John.”

“Me too,” Harry agreed. “Why did they have to choose  _him_  anyway? There were other boys. There’s a dickhead in my class – they could’ve chosen him.”

“Because life’s unfair,” Sherlock informed her. “Especially to me.”

“Oh, don’t  _you_  start – wait. Right. Mycroft,” she remembered.

“Right. First they try to take my brother, and now they’re trying to take… God, why couldn’t I have been faster?” he asked no one in particular.

“What do you mean, faster?” Harry asked.

“Nothing, I just…I think... I mean, I don’t think, I know, but I...”

“Just say it, Sherlock –”

“I like your brother,” Sherlock informed her. “Like, romantically.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Harry took another swig of the bottle. She finally spoke after the bottle was returned to the table.

“Oh.”

“And I never fucking told him. I tried to but the Peacekeepers dragged me away. And now he’ll never know. Yes, Clara was a bitch, but at least you said what needed to be said when you  _did_  like her.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “I miss her.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” she agreed. Sherlock looked at his notes.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he stood and smashed the bowl he was drinking tea out of to the ground. “Damnit,” he sighed. “There’s a guest room upstairs, and you’re free to use the shower,” he informed her.

“What, you’re going to bed?” Harry asked.

“Yes.”

“I wanted to share another bottle, though.”

“Maybe later, but I’m tired, and I don’t like what this is doing,” Sherlock decided, running his hand through his hair. “I feel weird and sentimental and it’s boring. And I hate boring.”

“Can I just drink a bottle by myself, then?” she requested.

“No, it’s too late. I’ve heard hangovers are a bitch,” he informed her.

“Ugh, now you’re just being unfair.”

“No, I’m just being practical,” Sherlock replied.

“And stupid.”

“Harry, come on,” Sherlock ordered, and with a dramatic sigh and a roll of her eyes, Harry stood, knocking over the chair as she did so. She looked up at Sherlock, wide-eyed.

“That was an accident,” she promised. She looked back at the bottle. “Can I break this? I need to fucking break something right now,” she informed him.

“Of course,” Sherlock said, and with that she picked up the large bottle and hurled it against the wall, breaking it into a few pieces. Finally feeling satisfied, she let Sherlock lead her upstairs to the guest room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be out the 11th of April!


	8. A New Element

Sherlock was the first one to wake up that morning, with no evidence of last night’s events except for the disorganized notes on the kitchen table, the overturned chair that was next to it, a slight headache, and Harry Watson sleeping soundly in his guestroom – the same room in which John had slept so many times. Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder if she could smell her brother on the sheets, and if she did, if it comforted her. Sherlock also imagined that if the headache he was experiencing was the product of a slight hangover, then Harry probably wasn’t faring too well, herself. Feeling sympathetic, he decided to make breakfast for the two of them. He let her sleep a bit longer and took a shower and got himself dressed, then made his way downstairs and to the kitchen.

The only reason Mycroft kept alcohol in the house (especially after Sherlock’s days of being an addict) was for himself. Mycroft drank extremely occasionally and lightly; they weren’t touched unless Mycroft came home from the Capitol without any victorious tributes, then he would drink for a day or two, and then sober back up. Sherlock figured the only reason he owned anything with more alcohol content than bottles of sherry and wine was just in case there came a day in which Sherlock was reaped and, despite their better efforts, died in the Arena. Even though Mycroft very rarely drank enough to give himself a hangover, Sherlock knew the basic hangover cures and the like, just for when Mycroft did give himself a hangover. He and Harry made one of the biggest drinking mistakes the night before: they barely had any carbohydrates to absorb the gin’s punch in their system. To make up for it, Sherlock put two slices of bread into the toaster to start out. As the toast heated, he downed a bowl of water and refilled it. He then went to the refrigerator and found some honey leftover from the cake he had made just a few days ago. He then gave his attention to the chair and his notes, lifting the chair up off the floor and putting it back where it belonged, and organizing the papers.

About half an hour later, he had eight slices of honey toast on a plate for both of them to share and was feeling much better. He placed all the toast into a large oval bowl; filled another bowl with water for Harry; and made his way upstairs to the guest room. There he found a tornado of sheets, blankets and pillows on the bed, and in the middle of it all, Harry Watson was sleeping heavily, red hair askew, facedown, drooling onto a pillow.

“Morning, Harry,” Sherlock said softly, and Harry lifted her head, groaning. “I made breakfast,” he said as he placed the bowls onto the nightstand and shut the curtains, allowing Harry to open her eyes without pain. “How do you feel?” he asked as she looked up and around the room groggily.

“Like shit,” she replied, rolling over and sitting up. “The gin was great but this is  _terrible.”_

“Yes, but that’s only because we made a mistake and didn’t have anything to absorb the alcohol. Here, this’ll help,” he said, passing her a piece of toast and sitting at the end of the bed. She thanked him and they ate their first slice in silence, until Sherlock spoke. “I imagine you can remember what happened last night?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry said. “I broke up with Clara and came here, and then we drank gin and talked about Clara and John and –” she gasped, remembering something. “– oh my god.”

“What is it?” Sherlock asked.

_“You like my brother.”_

“Harry, eat your toast,” Sherlock avoided her extremely true accusation.

“You have a crush on John!” she exclaimed.

_“Harry, eat your toast!”_

* * *

John and Mary descended the elevator of the training center on their fourth day of training. The third training session went alright – John tried to stray from Greg and the others a little bit and went station-jumping; visiting the stations he had the most difficulties with and revisiting the knife-throwing station in between, Victor Trevor staying by him. John and Mycroft hadn’t spoken much since the other night, but John had seen the redheaded Avox since his outburst, which he was pleased about. It was clear that the third training session was their final training session before meeting with the Gamemakers for their evaluation, so John wasn’t really sure why the tributes were being sent to the gymnasium so early the next morning.

When the elevator opened in the gym, there were no trainers to be found apart from Atala, who was ushering tributes to the cafeteria. Mary and John found a table with Victor Trevor and sat next to him, and John wondered if Greg and the others felt bad that he chose Victor and Mary over them.

Once all the tributes had gathered, Atala stood at the front of the room and spoke to them:

“Hello, tributes, I have an announcement for you all: President Snow and Head Gamemaker Seneca Crane have decided to add a new element to this year’s Hunger Games.” John’s stomach dropped. This could mean anything – something that gave a certain group an advantage, something that gave them all a disadvantage, or something that didn’t change the Games at all. “They have decided that you all will be choosing your own outfits from a selection chosen and approved by the Gamemakers.” John breathed out a sigh of relief. Perfect – something that didn’t alter the Games that drastically. “Each collection of options will be different for each tribute – it is impossible for two tributes to wear the same outfit. We will call you out one by one, and your Stylist will help you make the decision of what to wear in the Arena. After you make your choice, you will return back here, wait for everyone to cycle through, and then you will be called out again for your evaluation. Only after you are evaluated are you to return back to your rooms,” she explained to them. “Adler, Irene. You’re first,” she said, and Irene Adler, who was in the back of the room with the rest of the Careers, stood up and followed her out.

“Well. This is different,” Victor decided, and Mary nodded in agreement.

John was just happy there wasn’t a twist that gave the Careers more of an advantage than they already had.

One by one, the tributes were sent out of the room to pick their clothes for the Arena in a pattern that was all too familiar: girls before boys as they went by District. John would be the last tribute to leave the room. John guessed that after everyone chose their outfit the cycle would go in reverse, boys before girls by District, and then John would be the second-to-last tribute to be judged by the Gamemakers, only going before Mary. As the tributes cycled through, Mary, John and Victor spoke of their lives back home, and of their families.

The Trevor family was wealthy – or, as wealthy as a family from an outlying District could’ve been. Victor and his father, a field owner, lived alone. Mary was the one who asked why, and Victor explained that he had a sister at one point, but she died of illness along with her mother when Victor was young. John and Mary both offered their sympathies, but Victor assured them that it wasn’t a very big deal – he was nine at the time, he was over it by now. John decided not to share that Sherlock’s mother was also lost when Sherlock was only nine years old, under very different circumstances. Victor also quietly revealed that he was gay, and Mary and John offered their acceptance, and Mary asked how his father took it, to which Victor replied with, “well enough.”

Sherlock was right about Mary and Mrs. Morstan – when Mary talked about her family she wouldn’t stop talking about her mother. In fact, she spoke a lot about everyone in her family. She spoke highly of her father, who John learned worked with his dad in the coal mines, which John did mention. She also spoke about her best friend, Jamie Taylor, which caused Victor to mention his best friend, Hayden Wright.

“What about you, John?” Victor asked. “Any best friends?”

“Um, yeah,” John said. He couldn’t say that his best friend was Sherlock – that would blow his cover sky high. He tried to think about the boys from his classes and pulled a name out after a moment. “His name is Skylar. Skylar Dean.” He was in no way friends with Skylar Dean – he was the young pyromaniac Sherlock had deduced by the burn marks on his cuffs so many years ago when they first met.

“Hey, I know his sister, Sasha,” Mary informed him.

“Do you?” John asked, wondering how close he was to being caught in his poorly-put-together lie.

“Yeah, she’s in my class,” Mary replied. “They’re a bit weird, really, her and her brother. No offense,” she added. John didn’t really know how to respond, for she probably would’ve said the same about Sherlock if he had told the truth instead. Or she would’ve been too busy realizing that Sherlock and Mycroft were related and John had been lying to her all along to bring up the fact that everyone who ever had a conversation with Sherlock considered him to be “a bit weird.”

“What about your family, John?” Victor asked, quickly changing the subject. “Is it just you and your dad, too?”

“No, no, I’ve got a mom, too. And a sister,” John informed him, feeling bad, though Victor didn’t show any signs of envy or sadness.

“What are they like?” he asked, interested.

It was then John chose to open up and be honest with Mary and Victor. He told them about how his father was quiet and stern but was always there for him when he needed him, and how his mom was his exact opposite – sweet and talkative and caring for him and his sister. He told them how Harry was short for Harriet and that she was only fifteen years old and how she was smart and sassy and snarky and rebellious but didn’t let that get in the way of how much she cared for her family.

He didn’t tell them how much he missed them, but they didn’t ask. In fact, no one had expressed that they missed their families, not even Mary when she was discussing her mother.

Shortly after that, “Trevor, Victor” was called to choose his clothes for the Arena. He returned fifteen minutes later (Irene Alder had taken a full hour to decide, while Sebastian Moran was in and out in under five minutes), and claimed he was sworn to secrecy, and that he wasn’t one to break his promises. After Sally, Philip, “Davenport, Beth,” “West, Andrew,” and Mary were called out and came back, Atala called John’s name.

“Watson, John,” she called, and John stood up and followed her out. Atala pointed him in the direction of the center of the gym, where Cinna was standing behind a table that displayed a few articles of clothing, and letters to go along with them. In front of the table, on a tripod, was a camera, high out of John’s reach, with a small table in front of the tripod.

“Hello, John,” Cinna said kindly as John stood next to the camera.

“Hello, Cinna,” he replied, then surveyed the clothes. He was given three t-shirts: a pale green V-neck, a black crew neck, and a tan crew neck; a dark green tank-top; black shorts; tan capris; three pairs of pants: dark green, dark brown, and camouflage; three pairs of black, grey, and white socks, black sneakers, two pairs of combat boots: one black, one brown; and even two pairs of underwear: bright purple boxers, and red and white briefs. Each article was marked with a sticker that only contained a red letter, starting with “A” on the pale green V-neck and ending with “Q” on the red underpants. “So…what do you think?” he asked, looking up at Cinna.

“What do  _you_  think?” Cinna returned the question.

When Sherlock was fifteen and John was sixteen, Sherlock tried to teach John to deduce for himself. John was fairly good, but Sherlock was much better and it was easy for him to steal the spotlight and make John feel like an idiot, so John called off the lessons. Even though Sherlock tried to convince John to change his mind, he had made his decision. Sherlock never asked him to deduce again, and John never needed to, until now. John surveyed the clothes before him, and began:

“Well, the colors suggest that we’ll be in a heavily wooded Arena,” John decided, and Cinna made a humming sound that showed he agreed. “If I’m right, there’ll be ticks and ivy, so I should go for the pants,” John said, gesturing. “I should also choose the boots, seeing as they cover my ankles, plus they’re tougher. You know, for water resistance,” John went on.

“Sounds good,” Cinna complimented. “What colors are you thinking?”

“Brown,” John replied. “What were you thinking?”

“Just now? To be honest I was thinking you’re not the kind of person who looks good in green,” Cinna replied, and he and John chuckled. “Brown is good, though – it’s a nice, earthy, neutral color,” he assured him.

“Right,” John agreed, making a mental note of the pants and boots’ letters: “H” and “O”. “Sticking to that train of thought, I was thinking I should also go for the tan t-shirt?”

“That sounds great, John,” Cinna agreed, and John made himself remember that that shirt’s letter was “C.” “It’s also good because if it’s warmer than you expected in the Arena, you can just tear off your sleeves.”

“Or I can rip them off and use them as a bandage in an emergency,” John added.

“That’s right. Now all you have left is undergarments,” Cinna informed him.

“Right. Nobody’s gonna see it anyway, so…white socks, that’s ‘L,’ and…fuck it, why not? The red underpants,” John decided.

“Alright, then,” Cinna said. “If you want to gather what we agreed on, place it on the table, verify it for the camera, and let me take your measurements again you’ll be good to go.”

“Okay,” John replied, and went through and collected his new belongings, placed them on the table before the camera, and noticed for the first time the little slip of paper taped just under the lens, reading: “PLEASE STATE: NAME (LAST, FIRST) / DISTRICT # / CLOTHING LETTERS (ALPHABETICAL ORDER)”.

John looked up at the camera.

“Um,” he glanced back down, and then up at the camera again. “Watson, John. District Twelve. C, H, L, O, and Q,” he told the camera, and then Cinna measured him for his clothing sizes again, explaining that the Capitol would be making everyone’s clothes between now and the day they were sent to the Arena. When he was done, Cinna gave his own set of numbers and letters to the camera, and sent John on his way, saying that he’d see him tonight for the results of his evaluation and wishing him luck.

And with that, John went back to the cafeteria, where Victor, Mary, Greg, Sally, and Philip were all waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted April 25th!


	9. Evaluations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry again for the delay asdlfkj LIFE IS HAPPENING AND THE END OF THE YEAR RACE TO THE FINISH IS HAPPENING AT SCHOOL I JUST LAKSJDF okay anyways happy reading!

Greg called to John as he tried to pass by him, Sally, and Philip to reach Mary and Victor.

“Hey, where have you been?” he asked, and John shrugged.

“I was just with the tribute from my District, Mary,” John replied, then paused. “Do you want to come meet her?” he asked.

“Sure,” Greg said, and so John led him, Sally, and Philip to Mary and Victor.

“I’m back,” John announced as they reached the table, and Victor and Mary looked up. “And, um. Guys, this is Mary Morstan from District Twelve and Victor Trevor from District Nine. Mary, Victor, this is Greg, Sally, and Philip.”

It was then lunch was served, and Mary and Victor got to know Greg, Sally, and Philip. While Victor and Mary re-told their life stories to them John found himself not paying much attention to them. He became more and more aware that he was mere hours away from his private session with the Gamemakers.

His life in the Arena could very well depend on his score, and John felt like knowing this and knowing that the Gamemakers were going to watch him was going to throw off his aim – make him so nervous he would make mistakes. He looked around at the other tributes and wondered what they were planning. John wasn’t any special – he could just toss a few knives. He knew that the Careers had something diabolically brilliant up their sleeves to impress the Gamemakers with, especially Jim Moriarty. All the Careers trained from the day they were born to fight in the Arena and win the title of victor, but something about Jim Moriarty screamed that he was  _born_  to be crowned victor of the Hunger Games. John cursed heaven and hell and everything in between that Jim Moriarty had to show up  _now,_  when John was also a tribute.

When John snapped back to the present, Mary and Victor had asked about Greg, Sally, and Philip’s lives, but they all refused to say a word.

“We don’t want you to mourn over us,” Greg explained. “We just want to be names. We want to be easily forgettable.”

“Well, you can’t just be names. You’ll always be people. And we’ll never forget any of you,” Victor informed them, and John figured he was right. He looked around at the group at the table, and suddenly had a fear of winning. The longer he stayed alive the longer he would have to live with the thought that all of these kids had died. He wondered how Mycroft dealt with it, especially considering the fact that he was mentoring kids the same age each year, and how he felt about being the victor, leaving the kids he was tributes with behind. He wanted to ask, but he and Mycroft hadn’t spoken since the night John spoke to the Avox. Mycroft was going to have to get over the fact that John was being sent to the Arena in a few days, and John was going to have to get over his grudge, he decided, for he needed Mycroft right now, and Mycroft had always been so kind to John and his family…

After lunch, it was time for the tribute Evaluations, and Atala came back and called Jim Moriarty’s name. He strode proudly across the room and followed Atala out of the cafeteria, and he saw Mary roll her eyes out of his peripheral vision, and he tried his hardest to grin. From that time on their numbers dwindled as tributes left to show off their skills. As each person departed, John wondered about what they could do, and how whatever they did could be so much better than whatever John could do. He was the one of the last tributes to be judged – by the time he went in they’d hastily evaluate him based on the first thing he did or worse: not pay attention at all and give him whatever the hell they felt like, which certainly wouldn’t be a good score.

About halfway through the evaluations Greg, being from District 6, was called.

“Lestrade, Gregory,” Atala called, and Greg stood up.

“That’s me,” he said, and stood up straight, feigning confidence.

“Good luck,” Sally wished, and Philip, John, Mary, and Victor all echoed the sentiment, and Greg was off, not to be seen again until the tribute Interviews, which were in two days.

Once Greg was off, the group seemed to sort of drift apart from there until they were broken up completely – Sally and Philip in one group, and John, Mary, and Victor in the other. This gave John the impression that Sally and Philip didn’t like him as much as Greg did. But that was okay – Mary and Victor seemed to like him enough, and John liked them, too. He wished they met during a different time, when they weren’t being pitted against each other, and John wished that Sherlock was with him so he could introduce them to him and not have to lie about his best friend. Mary probably wouldn’t like him, but John found himself thinking that Victor might have liked him. Victor seemed to like everything and everyone, except for a few things.

“Do you think it’s weird that they’re betting on us?” he asked suddenly – so suddenly John almost didn’t catch it. “Like…I dunno. I never thought it was that weird when we watched it. We’d see someone we thought would win or see someone we liked as a person and hoped they would beat the odds. It’s so different now that they’re placing bets on  _me_ ,” he paused, tracing circles on the table with his fingers. “What do you think they think of us?” he asked.

“Probably not much,” John deadpanned.

“They probably think you’re alright,” Mary assured Victor. “You’re big, you’re nice, you’re strong, and you’re not from District Twelve.”

“What does being from District Twelve have to do with anything?” Victor asked.

“We’re kind of the laughing stock of the Hunger Games, remember? We’ve only had one winner in seventy-three years,” John replied.

“I’m sure they’ll find a new winner this year,” Victor said, smiling at John. “You guys are great, too, and you’ll make great opponents when the time comes.”

That comment did nothing but make John’s stomach perform summersaults. He didn’t want to kill Victor, or Mary, or any of the other tributes – not even one of the Careers. Maybe if he just found a really good hiding place somewhere and waited for the last tribute standing to go mad trying to find him and kill themselves, he’d stand a chance –

No, as soon as the Gamemakers realized what he was doing they’d chase him out and make him fight like everyone else. They’d know if he was hiding – the Hunger Games was a televised event – the Arena would have a countless amount of cameras set up everywhere. He thought about having at least three cameras trained on him at all times, and shuddered, uncomfortable.

“You alright, John?” Victor asked, and John looked up at him and Mary. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Just nervous for the evaluations,” John admitted. “And the Games in general, I guess.”

“We all are, John,” Mary said, trying to make him feel better.

“I don’t want to be the one to kill you, though –” John began, but Victor cut him off.

“You won’t have to. There’s twenty-four of us. A lot of tributes don’t kill anyone,” he assured him.

“But what if I’m the last one?” John asked.

“Then you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it,” Victor said, and Mary agreed.

It was then Victor was called. He stood up and looked at Mary and John as they wished him luck, and he returned their wishes.

From there, things were relatively quiet, until everyone was gone except for Mary and John. When Beth Davenport from District 11 left and it hit John that he was next, time seemed to stop, thus beginning the longest fifteen minutes of John’s life.

He couldn’t stop moving – first he tapped his hands on the table, bobbing his knee, but by the time Atala came for him he had gotten up and started pacing about the room, weaving between tables. All he had to do was throw a few knives; it really wasn’t that hard – John was a perfect shot. The only thing that was getting him so upset was that damned score. So much weighed on that one number, and it made John sick. The entire idea of the Hunger Games made him sick. Seeing this, Mary tried to soothe John’s nerves, but John wasn’t having any of it. Bursting with anger and anxiousness, Atala opened the door and called for John once more, and he began to follow her out, but Mary called him back.

“John?” He turned. “Good luck,” she wished.

“Thanks, you too,” he replied shortly, beginning to turn around again.

“I mean it, John,” Mary said. “You’ve got this.”

John only nodded before leaving the cafeteria and entering the nearly-empty gymnasium. The only people that were there were the Gamemakers, who were up in their little room. He had expected them to all be sat at desks with notepads and pens in hand and watching John’s every move, but that was far from the reality: they were barely paying attention to him at all. In fact, it seemed like they were having a party more than they were judging the tributes. Only a few of them chose to look at John as he made a beeline for the knife-throwing station he had grown to love so much. He took a knife from the table – one of his favorites – and thought of his family and of Sherlock as he gripped it in his hand and eyed the center target: the dummy’s chest. He had to do well, for everyone back home. He turned to the Gamemakers, filled with rage and determination, and nearly shouted an introduction.

“John Watson, District Twelve,” he announced, and while he had nearly everyone’s attention, he took a breath and spun around, tossing the knife. He almost didn’t want to look as it soared across the station, but he did, and watched it plunge right into the center of the target’s chest.

He’d done it! John dared not celebrate – he dared not look back at the Gamemakers. Instead, he picked up another knife, and aimed for the head. John went through the array of knives set out for him, hitting every target he aimed for. He knew that the Gamemakers had probably seen this all before – they had to have; John wasn’t the first person to ever throw knives – but he couldn’t help but beam as he hit his marks. He only turned to face the Gamemakers when he was out of knives to throw, feeling like he had made his point. He didn’t know what to expect from them, really – definitely not a round of applause or anything – but he found he was still slightly disappointed when they sent him on his way without a word about his performance.

Feeling confident for the first time since being reaped into the Games, he boarded the elevator and made his way up to his floor.

* * *

After their hangovers had died down, Harry and Sherlock created a story as to what happened the night previous: Harry had slept over at Clara’s, but the next day they had gotten into a fight and decided it was best if they discontinued their friendship, and as Harry was storming home she ran into Sherlock, who was on his way to the bakery. From there, they went and ran Sherlock’s errand together, and Sherlock decided that since he had his notebooks with him and would be visiting the Watsons’ in a few hours anyway, he would walk Harry home. The only thing they needed to make their story legitimate was some bread from the bakery, which they set out to retrieve after lunch.

They walked through the streets of District 12, their arms linked. The streets and sidewalks were not full of people – in fact, District 12 itself wasn’t full of people. When Sherlock and Harry  _did_  pass by the occasional person or small group of people, they seemed to avoid the two completely. Sherlock was used to this, but he noticed Harry’s confused expression.

“It’s not you, you know,” he informed her, and Harry looked up at him. “They’re just avoiding me.”

“Why?” she asked.

“I told you; I’m really rude,” Sherlock reminded her. “Mycroft’s polite – they all like him. I have no time for manners.”

“You’re just a little ball of sunshine, aren’t you?” Harry asked sarcastically, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I really am,” Sherlock said. “Anything else?”

“You like John,” she announced quietly, just loud enough for them to hear, smiling.

“And you like gin and girls?” Sherlock shot back, unsure of what game she was playing. “Not to mention all the other things I could easily deduce about you.”

“Yeah, but  _you_  like  _John_ ,” Harry repeated, continuing to smirk. “And don’t you dare deduce me – I’ve lived with you for two months; I know what you can find out about a person just by looking at them.”

“That’s fine – I’ve already deduced everything I need to know about you, anyway,” Sherlock informed her.

“Fuck you.”

“You don’t mean that and we both know it.”

“You like John,” Harry argued.

“I know.”

At the bakery, they bought three loaves of bread – a small one for Sherlock, a larger one for the Watsons’, and another small one for Sherlock and Harry to share on their walk home.

They did not speak of John during their walk through the District, but Sherlock could tell they were both anxious for that night. Sherlock thought about how, right then, John was probably being judged by the Gamemakers, and how in just a few hours, John’s score would be broadcasted to the world. He wondered what his score would be, and he thought about what he wanted John’s score to be. Sherlock didn’t want John to get a high score – he couldn’t look too threatening to the Careers, but too low of a score would get everyone on John’s case, ready to kill him. On the other hand, though, he  _did_  want John to get a higher score; he wanted John to get sponsors – someone who would give him something in his time of need. He wanted to try to predict John’s score, but at the same time he  _really_  didn’t want to know. That, of course, didn’t stop him from thinking about it.

His brain kept reeling with worry as they reached the Watsons’ home and while he and Harry told her parents their fabricated story. Sherlock joined the family for dinner, and after that they all sat down to watch the announcement of the scores.

Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman spoke of the tributes and made their stupid opinions that meant nothing to Sherlock but everything to the sponsors, and the tributes’ names and faces would appear on the screen, and just beside that, their score. After their usual banter about this year’s Hunger Games and how “interesting” it looked, they began to speak of the tributes.

“Jim Moriarty, from District One!” Claudius announced, and Jim’s face, smirking dangerously, appeared. They spoke of how he volunteered for a twelve-year-old, about his outfit during the opening ceremony, and how it seemed a lot of people were already betting on him to take home the title of victor.

“And everyone  _should_  be betting on him!” Caesar exclaimed, and Sherlock’s heart sank. “Jim Moriarty, District One, with a score of  _twelve!”_

Mrs. Watson dropped the glass of water she was holding, Harry hugged her legs to her chest, Mr. Watson put his face into his hands, and Sherlock’s eyes burned with tears as he gritted his teeth, glaring at the screen, at the face and the god-awful smirk he hated so much.

All the Careers were in top shape that year – most years nobody got above a ten, but this year both Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran scored higher than that – a twelve and an eleven, respectively. Irene Adler scored a ten, and the other careers scored eights and nines. Sherlock watched in horror as the Career’s names and scores came and went. Jim Moriarty was a monster, and Sebastian Moran was a killing machine – no mercy and no remorse for anyone. It seemed like no matter what, John was dead from the start, but Sherlock just couldn’t accept that.

The rest of the scores were pretty relative – the only one Sherlock really noted was Victor Trevor’s score of a nine. When Molly Hooper’s score flashed a two Harry spoke.

“Do you still think she can make it?”

“Who?” Sherlock asked, distracted.

“Molly Hooper,” Harry reminded him, gesturing to the screen.

“Oh, right,” he glanced at her picture on the screen, deducing. “Yes, my prediction still stands – if she runs, she won’t die in the bloodbath.”

“But she won’t win?” Harry asked.

“Of course not – Moriarty’s got a twelve under his belt,” Sherlock replied dismissively.

“What about John,” Mrs. Watson asked, and Sherlock could tell exactly what she was thinking by the emptiness in her voice: he was already dead. Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to reply. “Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson breathed. “What about John,” she repeated, and Sherlock closed his eyes. She knew that he knew – she just wanted to hear him say it. Sherlock took a deep breath, and replied.

“If he scores anything lower than a nine…he’s dead for sure,” Sherlock announced, and there was silence as John’s family took it in.

The scores rolled on, and Sherlock barely scoffed when the Anderson boy from District 10 landed himself a score of one and Sally from the same District scored a three. After District 11’s scores were revealed (thirteen-year-old Andrew West with a score of five and fourteen-year-old Beth Davenport with a score of six), it was John’s turn.

“And here we have John Watson, from District Twelve!” Claudius Templesmith announced, and John’s face appeared on the screen. His face was turned toward the camera, and he wore a sad sort of smile and the kindest eyes Sherlock had seen, like John forgave the Capitol and the viewers and everyone for his situation.

Sherlock couldn’t help his pupils from dilating as he laid his eyes on John’s face, wanting nothing more than for John to come home – and perhaps even into Sherlock’s arms.

“In a turn of events, John stopped a volunteer from taking his place when he was reaped for this year’s Hunger Games, and we can all remember the flaming coal suit he wore so well for the opening ceremony,” Caesar Flickerman recapped, and on the side of John’s picture flashed two other pictures – John standing in front of the train with Mrs. Hudson shortly before boarding said train, and John standing with Mary Morstan on their chariot during the ceremony, waving to the crowd. “How many bets does John have, Claudius?” Caesar asked.

“Quite a few, actually,” Claudius reported, seeming impressed. “A lot of people have their eyes on this young man.” Sherlock found himself beaming, proud of John.

“And what’s his score looking like?” Caesar asked, and there was a moment as the entire Watson family and Sherlock withdrew their breath.

“John Watson, from District Twelve, has a score of…” And then the world seemed like it was in slow motion as the number was flashed next to John’s face. “Nine!”

Everyone exhaled, and Sherlock let his tears fall, as did Harry. Mrs. Watson had been crying since John’s face appeared on screen.

John Watson had a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be posted May 9th!


	10. Fair Warning

When John woke up the next morning, the feeling of accomplishment hadn’t yet faded from him. He scored a  _nine_  – a fucking nine! It was no twelve like Jim Moriarty had scored (how had he gotten a fucking twelve, anyway? Scoring a twelve was nearly impossible), but it was still fantastic. He surprisingly even beat Mary, but just barely – she had scored an eight.

A nine. Things were beginning to look up, even if it was by just a bit.

John laid in bed for a while, in thought. It was a Sunday – John had been a part of the Hunger Games for almost a whole week, he realized. On any other day he and Sherlock would be running through the woods beyond the fence. But it wasn’t any other day – Sherlock Holmes was miles away; everything he ever knew was miles and miles away. The world he was in now – the Capitol’s world – was so different from the life he knew in District Twelve, but that didn’t stop that day from being Sunday in both places. Maybe they weren’t so different after all…

But they were. Every house in the Capitol probably had two bedrooms per person, while up until Mycroft won the Hunger Games the Watson household only had two bedrooms, leaving his parents to sleep in the one room of the house that was not only their bedroom but also the living room, dining room, and kitchen. Even the Holmes’ mansion in the Victors’ Village probably wasn’t as big or as elaborate as the houses in the Capitol – and they even had a guest room  _and_  a room for Sherlock to conduct experiments so he wouldn’t set his curtains or bed aflame. If that six-room, two-floor building was considered a mansion to John he couldn’t imagine what a mansion was to the citizens of the Capitol. The biggest difference of all, of course, was what the Capitol and the rest of Panem considered entertainment.

Thinking of the Holmes’ mansion made John think of Sherlock. He missed the mansion; he missed Sherlock. He missed everything about District 12, even though there were times John distinctly remembered from his childhood where he and Harry barely had enough to eat. No one ever had enough to eat in District 12. Unlike John, Sherlock got used to it. According to Sherlock, he had gotten so used to it he could live on one slice of bread a day for a week, but since they met John never let Sherlock miss a meal. John wondered if Sherlock was skipping meals now that he wasn’t there to keep an eye on him. He wondered how Harry was faring, and his parents. John and the other tributes would be publically interviewed by Caesar Flickerman tomorrow night. How would that go? What would they all think of him, now – pampered and kept under the eyes of the Capitol?

Had John changed, yet? The Hunger Games always changed everyone involved. Mycroft had changed, so had John?

It was then the door burst open, revealing Mrs. Hudson to wake him up (as she did every morning), wearing an outfit of aquamarine blue and yellow colors. It looked hideous, really, but John didn’t say this out loud.

“Good morning!” she just about sang. “Come for breakfast – we’ve got a  _big_  day planned for you!”

Every day was a big day there, but John didn’t mention this, either.

After John showered and got dressed he exited his room and made his way to the dining room. When he arrived, he found Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft at the table, enjoying their meal. Mycroft beamed when he looked up and found John crossing through the doorway.

“Here he is; the man of the hour: Mr. John Watson,” Mycroft said proudly, and John found himself grinning at him, even though they hadn’t spoken for a few days.

“Morning,” John said, sitting down next to him and beginning to fill his plate.

“May I just say that I’ve mentored for seven years, and no one has ever scored higher than seven,” Mycroft informed John. “I’m very proud of you.”

“Mary’s got an eight,” John reminded him, trying to keep some of the focus off of himself. “You should be proud of her, too.”

“I am, indeed,” Mycroft said.

“It just goes to show that District Twelve has a great set of tributes, this year,” Mrs. Hudson said gleefully.

“Maybe one of us will win this,” Mary Morstan cut in, entering the room. “Good morning,” she said, sitting across from John.

“And good morning to you, Miss Morstan,” Mycroft greeted. “How did you sleep?”

“Well, considering,” Mary replied, shrugging. “How about you, John?”

“Alright.”

“Congratulations, again, by the way,” she said.

“Thanks, you too,” John returned the compliment, taking a bite of the pancake that had been calling his name all morning.

When they were done eating, they got down to business: their interviews. As Avoxes cleared and cleaned their dishes, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson explained that since Mary and John had decided to be mentored separately, they would work in four-hour shifts; Mary would go with Mrs. Hudson and John would go with Mycroft, and then they’d switch off. The day after would be reserved for Cinna and Connie to play dress-up with Mary and John. The night before, when they all sat down to watch the results of their evaluations with the Gamemakers, they both seemed confident on what they had planned for Mary and John to wear. John trusted Cinna – he was excited to see what he had for him. After that, it would be near time for the interviews to begin. When Mycroft had finished with his run-down of the next two days, he sent Mary and Mrs. Hudson off to Mary’s room for their meeting, and he led John to the sitting room.

“I feel like we haven’t really spoken for days,” Mycroft spoke as he closed the door and John sat down in his usual seat. “How are you, John?”

“Fine,” John replied shortly as Mycroft sat across from him.

“Are you sure? You seem as if something is troubling you.”

John took a breath, looking down at his lap, wringing his hands. He couldn’t tell Mycroft how angry he was with him – not after all that he had done for him and his family. He was the reason John’s family moved out of that three-room house, after all.

“I mean, you’re here; of course something’s troubling you,” Mycroft went on. “But there seems to be something...more?”

Mycroft was as bad as Sherlock with the deductions – knowing the secrets the people around them kept, their private feelings. Christ, Mycroft probably knew exactly what was wrong, but just didn’t want to blurt it out due to basic human decency. Sherlock would’ve blurted it out, but Mycroft was different; he knew what was polite and what wasn’t.

John chose his words carefully.

“Well…yes, something’s troubling me.” He looked up, but off into the corner of the room, instead of at Mycroft’s concerned face. “I know you’re my mentor here and not my friend like we were in District Twelve, but…” John licked his lips, anxious. “You’re treating me different. Like I’m definitely going to die and you’re trying to detach yourself from me. And if you don’t believe that I’m going to live that’s really…I dunno, scary, I guess? I’m scared, Mycroft,” John admitted, finally looking at his mentor. “And you’re not helping.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to break eye contact as he nodded.

“I can see where you got that assumption,” he began. “Despite what you have felt, though, I can assure you that I have never lost faith in you, John,” he promised, smiling at John, but John did not return the expression. “I sincerely apologize for leading you astray.”

“It’s fine. I’ve had a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you, though, if we have time,” he said, changing the subject.

“What would that be?” Mycroft asked. “We have four hours; I’m sure your question won’t take up that much time.”

“Alright.” John thought about how to ask. “Do you remember how I said that I kept thinking that I’d have to kill in the Arena?”

“I do,” Mycroft replied.

“The longer I live, the longer I’ll have to deal with whoever I’ve killed, won’t I?” John asked, looking at Mycroft, searching for anything to give him hope that one day he’ll live past the guilt, but Mycroft only nodded solemnly, and John immediately knew that, as long as he was alive, he’d never forgive himself. “How do you do it? You...you’ve killed people. And then, even when you mentor –”

“I’m sending kids to their deaths, I know. I do everything in my power to save them, but even then I know that saving one will cost the other’s life. It’s an unfortunate way to live, but I suppose I’ve earned it.”

“How do you live with it?” John repeated his question.

“I honestly don’t know,” Mycroft informed him. “Though, somehow, I’ve done better than the other mentors I’ve come across. District Six is a mess…”

It was then something clicked in John’s head, and he understood everything.

“There’s no way you can win,” John muttered, aghast, running his hand through is hair. “If you lose, you die – it’s over. But if you  _win_  – all those lives that you’ve helped end...”

“You’re not giving up on yourself, are you, John?” Mycroft asked, concerned.

“No, never,” John replied. “I’ve got a nine on my evaluation with the Gamemakers – that’s great. I just…I wish I knew which was worse.”

“I wish I could tell you, but unfortunately I’m not even sure, anymore. What I  _do_  know is that I have Sherlock, and you have your family. If for nothing else, try to win for them.”

“I will,” John assured him. “Can we move on to my mentoring for the interview?”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied. “The first thing we must do is figure out how to present you to the audience. Other than your name, your face, and that number nine you’ve earned, no one knows anything about you.”

“They know about Sherlock’s volunteer, though,” John said.

“Yes, that’s about the only thing anyone has to get an idea of your personality – someone worth volunteering for. Perhaps we could work with that,” Mycroft thought aloud. “What do you think?”

“We could say that I sacrificed myself for my friend – a martyr –”

“No, not a martyr; that will certainly get you killed,” Mycroft cut him off.

“Well…before I left, Sherlock said that I was likeable; maybe we could try a likeable approach?” John suggested.

Mycroft nodded, mulling it over.

“Yes, I think so,” he decided. “I know you; you can do likeable. We can reveal that the boy who volunteered for you was your best friend, and you stopped him out of kindness. Try to avoid using the word ‘sacrifice’ – you’ll make yourself look like you could be used as a human shield in the Arena.”

“Right,” John agreed. He hadn’t thought of that.

“You should put an emphasis on your family, obviously, Sherlock too. Anyone who likes you will think of the fact that you have a family to come home to when choosing a tribute to sponsor.”

“But everyone has families.”

“That may be true, but that doesn’t mean they love theirs as much as you love yours,” Mycroft informed him. “If you have a nine and mention how much you love and miss your family and someone like Jim Moriarty has a twelve but doesn’t say a word about missing his mother that might just put you two on the same level when attracting sponsors,” he explained.

“What do you think he’s going for?” John asked. “Jim?”

“Either smart or charming, I can imagine. Mr. Moran would probably go for fierce, and Miss Alder for sensual. I advise you not to worry about them, though, John; just focus on yourself. Would you like to have a practice interview right now? I would be your interviewer, and you would answer as if you were being televised,” Mycroft offered.

“That would be nice, thank you,” John replied, and they spent the next few hours interviewing John. He was polite and smiled a lot, and mentioned his family whenever he could. Mycroft paused the interview to give John a few pointers when necessary, but all in all it seemed to go well.

When the session with Mycroft was over and lunch was served, John went to Mrs. Hudson to his room, where she dressed him in a suit and tie and began her lesson on stage presence.

“Now, Mycroft’s taught you about the content of your interview. What approach will you be going for, John?” Mrs. Hudson asked.

“We agreed on likeable,” John replied.

“That makes this easy, then,” she decided, and they got to work.

John was extremely thankful he wasn’t a girl, for even though walking the way Mrs. Hudson wanted him to was difficult enough, John imagined it would’ve been even harder if he was wearing high heels. He found himself wondering how Mary dealt with it. When Mrs. Hudson finally passed him on his walking, they moved quickly to sitting and posture. Apparently, John had a tendency to sit back instead of sitting up straight. From there, they worked on John’s eye contact, hand gestures and smiling. Though Mrs. Hudson informed him that John did have a charming smile, she advised he should use it more. In fact, she taught him what she called the Three S’s: “Smile, Smile, Smile!” By the time they were done and it was time for dinner John’s cheeks were sore from all the smiling he had done.

The evening went relatively alright – Mary, John, and Mycroft stayed up late into the night, and the tributes complained about their day, much to Mycroft’s amusement. He even chimed in and recounted the time when he was tribute, and Mrs. Hudson was also his escort, and he went through the same thing. It was not a night of strategy, and it didn’t need to be. It was like everything was fine, and they were all the best of friends, instead of two enemies and their mentor.

It was nice, considering.

* * *

Sherlock was sleeping with his head on the table when the phone – the only phone in all of District 12 other than the mayor’s, according to Mycroft – rang, pulling him out of his slumber. He stood up and groggily rubbed his eyes as he crossed the room to the phone on the wall. He picked up the phone off of the receiver and held it to his ear.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock answered.

“I’m sorry; did I wake you?” Mycroft asked.

“A little bit. What’s going on? How’s John?” Sherlock asked.

“Everything’s fine. I’m sure you can imagine why I’m calling you.”

“You’re staying in the Capitol,” Sherlock said. “I thought that was obvious from the moment John was reaped.”

“Of course it was obvious, but I didn’t want to leave you in the dark,” Mycroft informed his brother.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sherlock said.

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Mycroft reminded him wearily. “No one is to know of a tribute’s wellbeing besides what is shown by the Capitol.”

“These rules are fucking –”

“I’m going to have to ask you not to complete that sentence,” Mycroft warned Sherlock before he could finish. “How’s John’s family? You haven’t been too much of a nuisance, have you?”

“I haven’t,” Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. “To be honest, Harry’s been visiting of her own accord.”

In fact, Harry Watson was asleep on his sofa as he spoke, but he didn’t need to tell Mycroft that.

Harry had told her parents that she was spending the night at Sherlock’s, which was the truth: for the first time, Harry and Sherlock had actually  _scheduled_  a visit. Sherlock picked her up at the time they agreed on, and everything was fine.

On their way to Sherlock’s though, they ended up running into Clara’s brother, Benjamin Coleman, who, though he was only sixteen, was much bigger than Sherlock. Harry was able to ignore the homophobic name-calling without batting an eye, and Sherlock deduced that, unfortunately, Harry dealt like people like this more often than not. She didn’t even react when he said how she converted his sister, even though it was Clara who showed interest in Harry in the first place (this she had disclosed to Sherlock after the fact), but the moment he started yelling about how he hoped John Watson died in the Arena she was on him, fighting a losing battle.

Sherlock had stood shock-still for a moment before diving in after her, trying to pull Harry off of Benjamin, but when he called her – or him, or both of them – a freak, Sherlock threw a punch in, and got a black eye in return. Benjamin only let up when a Peacekeeper was rounding the corner, and they all scattered, Harry and Sherlock sprinting away to Sherlock’s house. As Sherlock assessed the situation, Harry drank about three quarters of a gin bottle – the other quarter was used on her cuts, by Sherlock’s request.

Harry and Sherlock sat at the table for hours after that, discussing the notes Sherlock had made about John and his Games and Harry’s relationship with Clara. She cried a bit at the idea of Clara’s mother contacting Mrs. Watson about their relationship, but Sherlock shut down that idea as quickly as it came, insisting that if their mothers weren’t friends when Harry and Clara  _were_  dating, they definitely wouldn’t start making conversation now that they had broken up. They raged at their situation, and at Benjamin and Clara, even throwing a few saucers at the wall, just for good measure.

At about eleven o’clock Sherlock informed Harry that she should go to bed, and that he’d continue taking notes. She decided not to stray too far and fell asleep on the sofa in the sitting room, and Sherlock fell asleep at the table soon after.

But he didn’t need to tell Mycroft any of that.

“Interesting,” Mycroft mused. If Sherlock was a few years younger, he would’ve found it in himself to mimic him, because what the hell did “interesting” mean to a Holmes, anyway?

“The interviews are tomorrow,” Sherlock mumbled, as if remembering.

“Indeed.” There was a pause as Sherlock assumed Mycroft checked the clock. “In fact, it’s tonight.”

Sherlock’s heart simultaneously dropped into his stomach and launched into this throat.

“So…so tomorrow’s –”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied solemnly. “John will leave for the Arena tomorrow morning, and the Hunger Games will begin.”

“H-he’ll make it, right? Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, his eyes stinging with the threat of tears.

“There’s no way I could know for sure, Sherlock.”

“Oh come  _on!_  You must have  _some_  idea, brother; you  _are_  a mentor, after all,” Sherlock pressed, his patience growing thin. “The Careers are top-notch this year – that Jim Moriarty bastard has a twelve, for god’s sakes – you can’t tell me you haven’t made your own deductions about John’s fate.”

There was a sigh on the other line.

“John has potential, Sherlock. And therefore he has a chance.”

“I know he has a chance but  _how much_  of a chance?” Sherlock asked, his voice cracking.

“I think that depends on how his interview goes tonight,” Mycroft considered. “You know as well as I do that gaining sponsors is extremely important. But, knowing John the way I do, I’m sure that it will go well.”

“So the odds are in his favor?” Sherlock asked, hopeful.

“The odds are in his favor,” Mycroft confirmed.

A slight wave of relief swept over Sherlock, and he let his tears fall.

“Just…just don’t let him die, okay?” Sherlock begged into the receiver, sounding like a child.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mycroft replied, echoing the promise he had made so many years ago.

“And Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, a moment of courage swelling in him.

“Yes?”

“Just to give you a fair warning…–” Sherlock tried, but Mycroft chuckled, cutting his brother off.

“When have you ever given me a fair warning?” he asked. “Whatever you’ve done – whatever you’ve broken – I’m sure it’s fine. We’ll deal with it when I get home. Get some rest, Sherlock.”

“’Night,” Sherlock whispered, the courage gone.

“Goodnight,” Mycroft replied, and they each hung up their phones. Sherlock went upstairs, only pausing to lay a blanket over Harry, and collapsed into his bed, fearing the coming day. In just twenty-four hours, John would be spending his last night in the Capitol, and in thirty-six hours, John Watson would be in the Arena.


	11. Interviews

John stood before a full-length mirror, staring at himself. It was just before the Interviews, and John’s entire day was spent with his prep team and Cinna. Even though John didn’t need as nearly as much attention as Mary would, he was prepped until the afternoon, covering every blemish John ever possessed with a pound of makeup and coloring him just right. Even though Mary and John were in no way being considered a team, Cinna and Connie were still making Mary and John’s interview outfits a set, based off of the “flaming coals” theme: Mary was the flame, and John was the coal. Apart from John’s blonde hair, he was covered in dark colors, dressed in a suit made of black and dark grey materials that dully shined under light. The shadows in his face were darkened by metallic black dust, and Flavius (who normally did John’s hair) tossed gold, orange, and red glitter into his hair to make it look like John was sprouting a little flame of his own. It even seemed like the glitter was vaguely sprinkled onto his suit, furthering the idea that he was burning, too. He had to give his team credit: he did actually look a bit like a lump of coal.

“How do you like it, John?” Cinna asked from behind him, where he was standing with the prep team, watching John.

“I… It’s fantastic,” John said, turning to look at them. “Thank you, so much,” he said, and with that Cinna sent the prep team out. He let John walk around the room in his new suit, which was more than comfortable – the sparkle in his clothes even didn’t rub off onto his hands when he touched it.

“Are you all ready for your interview, tonight?” Cinna asked.

“About,” John replied with a shrug. “Other than, you know, the impending nervousness,” he added, looking at himself in the mirror again.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. What are you going for?” Cinna asked.

“Mycroft and I decided I would try to be likable,” John answered, and Cinna grinned.

“Well, that won’t be too hard then, will it?”

* * *

As the tribute interviews approached, Sherlock came to the decision to watch that particular broadcast at home and on his own. There wasn’t any shaking him; not even Harry could dissuade him while they walked home from running errands for John’s mother.

 _“Please_ stay over? Broadcasts are so  _boring_  without you!” Harry begged.

“No,” Sherlock replied.

“Are you really gonna walk the extra half mile to your house by yourself?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Come on; you can’t be serious!” Harry cried.

“I am serious,” Sherlock informed her. “I’ll probably be smashing bowls while it goes on; it’s probably for the best that I stay home.”

“You can smash bowls  _after_  you watch the interviews with us!”

It was then Sherlock stopped on a dime, grabbed Harry’s shoulders, and rounded her to face him. They stared at each other.

“Harriet, let me just go home,” Sherlock ordered, and Harry forcefully shrugged him off.

“Don’t call me Harriet,” she growled under her breath.

“Don’t piss me off,” Sherlock countered, and they walked the rest of the way to the Watsons’ in silence.

Sherlock wanted to avoid Harry that day, but he was starting to grow this older-brother-like sense of protectiveness over her. He wondered if this is how John felt about her, and Mycroft felt about him. Sherlock found himself escorting Harry everywhere ever since the run-in with Benjamin, in fear that if he didn’t she would face him (or someone like him) again. His presence barely helped her – he was considered a freak at school – but somehow knowing that she got from one place to another without getting into a fight made him feel better.

When Sherlock dropped Harry off at the Watsons’ house, Harry quickly convinced her mother to invite Sherlock over for the night. Despite Sherlock’s assurances that he wouldn’t want to be rude and just show up every time there was a Hunger Games broadcast, Mrs. Watson insisted, and eventually won out. Sherlock didn’t let his despair show to Mrs. Watson, but shot Harry a glare and flipped her off when her parents’ backs were turned. She responded by pretending to be surprised when she pulled her own middle finger out of her shirt pocket, and although he was still pissed at her, he still thought it was funny.

That night, while dinner was in the oven, the family sat in the living room and watched the Interviews on the television. One by one, each tribute would talk to Caesar Flickerman about various things – their home life, what it would mean to them to win the Games, how confident they were, and their strategy.

Sherlock sat between Mrs. Watson and Harry and wrote his notes as the tributes rattled on, making deductions in parentheses as he went. He paid extra attention when Jim Moriarty took the stage, writing down everything he said word for word.

“Now, Jim, can I call you Jim?” Caesar asked.

“Of course,” Jim agreed, grinning towards the cameras.

“What would winning this Hunger Games mean to you?”

There was a moment as Jim thought over his words, looking as if he was at a total loss, to which Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“It would mean the world to me,” Jim replied, looking as honest as possible. “I worked so hard to get here – I’d hate to have it all be for nothing.”

“You may recall that Jim volunteered for a twelve-year-old boy back in his District,” Caesar reminded the audience as Sherlock wrote “SUCK UP” and underlined it in his notepad.

As for his strategy, Jim chose to keep that a secret, much to Sherlock’s anger.

“As much as I’d love to tell you, Mr. Flickerman, my fellow opponents  _are_  watching this; I wouldn’t want them to get any ideas, if that’s alright with you, I mean?” Jim responded when he was asked.

“Ooh, a mystery!” Caesar exclaimed, and the crowd cheered their support.

“Yes, indeed!” Jim laughed, and Sherlock scoffed at his use of ‘indeed.’ “Although, I  _could_  let you in on a little secret, if you’d be interested…” he teased.

“We certainly are interested – aren’t we?” Caesar asked the audience and the crowd went wild. Sherlock stared at Jim, expressionless yet interested.

“I can promise you all, right here, right now: as long as I’m in the Arena, this Hunger Games will not fail to entertain you,” he announced, flashing an award-winning smile. Sherlock groaned in rage, causing everyone in the room to jump from the sudden noise.

“When is John coming on?!” Sherlock cried. “I’m sick of this asshole!”

“Sherlock –” Mrs. Watson began, and Sherlock quickly retracted his prior statement. Luckily, Sherlock didn’t have to suffer more of Jim Moriarty, for the three-minute buzzer sounded, and Moriarty was cheered off of the stage.

* * *

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, may I present to you, last but certainly not least: John Watson!”

John took his walk to the stage, where Caesar Flickerman was waiting for him with a gigantic smile upon his face. He could feel the eyes – the eyes of the people in the live audience and the eyes of the rest of Panem – watching him with every step. He stood up straight, trying to look confident as he shook Caesar’s hand, matching the smile he saw on the man’s face.

* * *

It felt like the entirety of District 12 was silent as John crossed the stage, before the cheering crowd. Sherlock’s eyes followed John, and a lump grew in his throat as he saw his best friend. He was all dolled up, just for the Capitol’s entertainment – he probably never felt cleaner in his whole life. This wasn’t the boy from eight years ago; the boy who caught Sherlock hiding from the world under his brother’s sweatshirt. This wasn’t the person Sherlock watched year after year of the Hunger Games with, or the person who ran through the woods beyond the fence with him, or the person he became best friends with. This man didn’t look like John Watson at all.

But he was. As the camera panned and zoomed into John’s face, Sherlock could see his face. His smile was still compassionate, his eyes were still as blue and as kind as the boy he met so many years ago. There was something new though – something that painted every emotion that came across John’s expression: undeniable fear.

Sherlock only glanced away from John as he sat down with Caesar Flickerman to see John’s family. Mr. Watson and Harriet were stone-faced, hiding what they could, but Mrs. Watson was silently crying for her son.

* * *

There were two identical golden plush chairs on stage – one for Caesar and the other for John. Caesar gestured for John to sit in one, and sat in the other, and John quickly took the seat Caesar had given him.

“How have you enjoyed your time in the Capitol, John?” he asked, and John found himself at a loss of words for a moment.

This “new life” he was leading – more like being dragged through – was fantastically luxurious. But every nice thing he saw and ate and experienced at the Capitol made the experience even more bittersweet. Despite how nice it was, it didn’t stop the Hunger Games from happening. No matter what he said or did that night he would still be shipped to the Arena the next morning. But, no matter what he did that night on that stage, he had to be likable while doing it.

“Everything is amazing here – it’s so different from back home. I’ve really enjoyed my stay, thank you,” John thanked him, wondering if it was too much. He could almost hear Jim Moriarty’s scoff off-stage. He was trying to be likable, not a kiss-ass.

“What’s been your favorite part?” Caesar asked.

“Honestly? The showers,” John spoke without thinking, but before he could catch and correct himself, the audience laughed. He even made Caesar laugh, but that wasn’t hard for a tribute to do – he was supposed to make the tributes look nice for the sponsors. He beamed as Caesar spoke.

“The soaps are so nice, aren’t they?” he asked, as if they were simply making small talk.

“They’re amazing; I mean, I’ve never smelt like citrus before,” he announced, and that sent another wave of chuckles through the crowd.

* * *

Sherlock was infuriated. John was like an experiment to them: they took John out of the life that he knew and gave him a life of luxury for a week, and now he’s reporting the results – and they were _laughing._

He was forced to remind himself that the laughter wasn’t mean; they weren’t laughing at John and the fact he was from District Twelve – they liked him. The more they laughed the more likable he was, and the more likely he would get a sponsor that could very well save his life.

That didn’t keep his fists from clenching, though.

* * *

“Now, let’s talk about that reaping of yours – it was quite an interesting one, don’t you think?” Caesar asked, and it took John a second to remember why: Sherlock had attempted to volunteer for him. He nodded in agreement as Caesar reminded the audience in the crowd and at home as to what happened. “If you don’t remember, a member of District Twelve tried volunteering for John, but was shut down by John himself. Was that a friend of yours, John?”

“Yes, it was,” John answered, keeping in mind that if he used Sherlock’s name he would ultimately give away that his mentor was his best friend’s older brother. “That was my best friend, actually.”

“Oh, really?!” Caesar exclaimed, and John wondered if he was going to ask for a name. “Wanted the glory for himself, didn’t he?” he suggested.

* * *

“Yeah, something like that,” John lied, and Sherlock felt the impulse to overturn his house and destroy everything that could be broken.

* * *

“How are you feeling about tomorrow? Well, I imagine? You’ve got a nine under your belt – that’s great for an outlying District,” Caesar informed him.

“Thank you,” John replied, but couldn’t help thinking of how Jim Moriarty had a twelve, so John was obviously not as prepared as he was, but he had to be confident for the crowd. “I think I’m ready to go,” he informed him. “It’s really nice here, but it’ll be good when I’m out there.”

“One step closer to home?” Caesar asked, trying to guess how John was feeling.

* * *

“One step closer to home,” John repeated, nodding his head in agreement, and that was when Mrs. Watson gasped out a sob.

“John sweetie…” she whispered, and Sherlock found himself wanting to comfort her, but not knowing how, he didn’t.

* * *

“Are you confident that you’ll win?” Caesar asked.

John bit his tongue back from saying something stupid like, “Not as much as Jim Moriarty,” and smiled kindly at Caesar Flickerman.

“Yeah, I’m pretty confident,” John replied, and there was a few “oohs” and cheers in the crowd. They knew his odds weren’t looking so good.

“Really? You’ve got some competition,” Caesar reminded him, looking like John just told him he’d kill Jim Moriarty single-handedly.

“I’m quite aware,” John chuckled. “But I think I’ve got some potential,” he informed him, and the crowd cheered. He glanced up in the special seating on the balcony for the mentors and escorts and found Mycroft beaming. “Anything to see my family again,” he added.

“You seem very family-orientated,” Caesar noticed. “What are they like?”

John took a moment to think of his answer, wording it all in his head.

* * *

“My family means more to me than anything,” John replied, and it was then Harry joined her mother in the silent cry-fest. “My mother’s simply amazing – I don’t think I’d be the person I am today without her. I can’t imagine how she’s feeling right now. I hope she’s proud – my dad, too. He sort of prepared me for my time here; he’s a very strong person, and so am I. My parents do so much for me and my sister.”

* * *

“You have a sister?” Caesar asked. “Older, younger?”

“She’s younger, but not by much. She’s witty and snarky and we don’t get along most of the time –”

“What siblings do?” Caesar joked, and John laughed along with Sherlock and Mycroft in mind.

“Yes, but I do love her very much. I love them all, and I hope to see them really soon,” John concluded, getting a few “aw”s out of the audience, but John couldn’t help thinking it wouldn’t be enough for sponsors.

* * *

“Now what about your best friend; the one who tried to volunteer for you? How do you feel about him?” Caesar asked, and Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable stab into his heart.

“He’s still the best friend I’ve ever had,” John replied simply. “We met about eight years ago – we’ve been through so much. This reaping – or this Hunger Games, even – won’t change that. Nothing will.”

Sherlock felt tears come to his eyes, but he didn’t dare let them drop. He knew there had to be more.

And there was.

* * *

“So you want to go home to your family and your best friend – anyone else? Any girls?” Caesar asked, and the crowd “ooh”d, as if John’s life was now a soap opera.

John couldn’t help but chuckle.

“No, not really – I don’t have much luck with women,” he informed Caesar, and he laughed with him.

“Well, we’ve got about a minute left, John, and I have something that I wanted to give to you before you left us here, tonight. A very special viewer sent something in for us to give to you – not something to take to the Arena, but something from home.”

Suddenly, all confidence John had was lost. This had never happened before; nobody ever sent Caesar anything other than mail from adoring fans. This was entirely new, and that meant John was completely unprepared.

At that moment, a woman in a dress the same shade of powder blue Caesar was dressed in came out onto the stage. She had a pillow in her hands, and upon that pillow was a purple flower.


	12. PART TWO: The Games // The Iris

_Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were running through the woods beyond the fence. It was springtime just after John turned twelve, on a Friday, just after school had let out. They had told John’s parents and Mycroft the opposite things: John was going to Sherlock’s house, and Sherlock was going to John’s. They did this every once in a while – not so often that John’s parents and Mycroft would get suspicious, but to the point where they knew the woods like the back of their hands._

_But that day was different – John and Sherlock were running to uncharted territory, as far as they could run, until they reached something worth noting. For Sherlock, “worth noting” couldn’t just be an interesting tree or a knapsack belonging to someone who had been found by the Capitol; it meant finding something they had never seen before._

_“Come on, John!” Sherlock called as he ran ahead, climbing up a steep hill._

_“I’m coming!” John exclaimed, racing after him._

_By the time John had just started climbing the hill, Sherlock – who was slightly more athletic than John – was already at the top._

_“Oh my god,” he muttered, and called down. “John! John, you have to come see this!”_

_“I’m coming!” John repeated, picking up the pace._

_“Hurry!” Sherlock yelled down, as if the thing that Sherlock was looking at was going to vanish if John didn’t get to the top of the hill soon enough._

_When John finally reached the top of the hill, he doubled over, panting. Sherlock gestured out._

_“Look!” he exclaimed._

_John looked out, not knowing what to expect, and found nothing more than a field of purple irises, extending out for about a mile or two from the bottom of the hill._

_“Sherlock? You know that boys our age aren’t really fascinated with flowers, right?” John asked._

_“Who cares?” Sherlock replied, scoffing. “They’ve never mattered – why should they now?”_

_“What would your brother say?” John joked._

_“Pfft, Mycroft’s only disappointed when I’ve gone and blown up the house,” Sherlock informed him._

_“You’ve gone and blown up the house?” John asked incredulously._

_“Don’t act like you haven’t.”_

_They stood at the top of the hill and stared at the flowers below. Flowers grew in District 12, but never like this. John remembered seeing about ten individual flowers in his whole life; Sherlock probably saw even less with the amount of time he stayed inside._

_“They’re irises,” John announced. “I’ve seen a few once, when I was younger.”_

_“How young?” Sherlock asked._

_“I dunno – Five? Six? I was with my mom – she told me they mean good luck,” John recalled._

_“Good luck. Maybe the odds will be in our favor, then,” Sherlock muttered, and took a small jump down, beginning to descend towards the field._

_“Wait – wait, what are you doing?” John asked, grabbing onto Sherlock’s hand._

_“I’m going down there; what does it look like?” Sherlock asked, pulling on John to come down with him._

_“We can’t go down there!” John hissed. “If a hovercraft flies over – you know what happens; Mycroft’s told you.”_

_“I won’t be down there for long – I promise,” Sherlock swore. “I’ve never seen flowers like these before.”_

_“Sherlock –”_

_“One minute, that’s it. Please, John,” Sherlock begged._

_John contemplated for a moment._

_“Sherlock Holmes, you will be the death of me,” John gave in, letting go of Sherlock’s hand._

_“Yes!” Sherlock exclaimed, and ran down the hill. With a sigh, John followed._

_Sherlock was a man of his word – as if he was counting, when sixty seconds passed, Sherlock called John and together they made their way back up the hill. Moments after they crossed back under the cover of the trees, they heard the ominous whirring of a Capitol hovercraft. They reached the top of the hill just in time to watch the dark shadow cross over the field._

_They never went again. There were moments where they wanted to go back, but they didn’t want to risk getting caught like they almost did the first time. Neither of them had ever crossed another iris’s path until –_

* * *

John stared at the flower that was presented on the fancy pillow before him. His mind froze, and it seemed like everything was moving in slow motion as Caesar smiled at John and the audience.

“It looks like you have yourself a love interest, John!” Caesar announced, and the crowd cheered.

“Who – who sent it?” John asked, though he knew the answer – only one person could’ve known about that flower, and the field it came from…

“A young man by the name of Sherlock Holmes,” Caesar said, speaking to both John and the audience, reading the name off of a small cue card in his hand.

* * *

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on John, feeling the eyes of Mr. and Mrs. Watson boring into his skull. Now Harry knew why Sherlock wanted to go home.

He wondered how John felt.

* * *

“Do you know anyone by that name?” Caesar asked.

“He’s… Yeah, he’s my best friend,” John’s voice said, most of his brain still trying to catch up with what the flower implied. A smaller part of his brain thought that was it – that was the end of the façade; Mary now knew that John and Mycroft knew each other outside of the Hunger Games.

“Interesting!” Caesar looked down at the cue card. “Hm…Holmes,  _Holmes_ … Where have I heard that name before?” he thought aloud.

Irises meant good news – maybe Sherlock deduced John’s victory?

But Caesar mentioned a love interest –

_“You know I try to divorce myself from my feelings, but it’s never been that way with you. And I didn’t know if I was ever going to put this into words but since – since there’s a chance we won’t see each other again I want you to know –”_

“Mycroft –” John began, his voice empty.

“Yes, that’s right!” Caesar exclaimed. “Sherlock Holmes is your mentor’s brother, isn’t he?!”

* * *

The camera showed a shot of Mycroft up in the seating box for the mentors and escorts, showing Mycroft’s look of careful indifference, his eyebrows slightly raised.

Sherlock grimaced.

“I’ve heard that this particular flower means  _love,”_  Caesar announced, and the entire crowd ‘ooh’d. “So it seems to me that this Mr. Sherlock Holmes has a crush on you, John, you lucky dog!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Irises were signs of good news, not love. But the Capitol was the Capitol – they probably believed that hot-pressed coal made pearls, too.

Yet, despite that, Sherlock’s message was received loud and clear.

* * *

John’s mind was just coming out of the stand-still.

“But – we’re boys,” he managed to say, and the entire crowd laughed.

“That’s perfectly fine!” Caesar announced. “We here at the Capitol are extremely accepting, aren’t we?” he asked, turning to the audience, and they went ballistic with support.

John stared out into the crowd. The “likable” strategy didn’t work as much as romance could. He glanced up at the balcony where Mycroft was sitting. Their eyes met, and it was like they were both thinking the same thing: this was an opportunity for gaining sponsors John couldn’t let pass him by.

* * *

“Do you have feelings for Sherlock, John?” Caesar asked, and Sherlock leaned forward without thinking.

The camera zoomed in on John, and John opened his mouth to speak just as the buzzer for the three-minute mark rang.

* * *

Jolted into speech by the suddenness of the buzzer, John blurted out, “Yes!” He looked at the camera. “Sherlock, I –” It was then that embarrassment choked off his words and colored his face a bright red.

* * *

Sherlock’s heart was hammering in his chest as John looked from the camera back to Caesar.

“I love Sherlock Holmes,” John announced, and the entire crowd made sounds of adoration.

* * *

“I think we should give him another minute – what do you say?” Caesar asked the audience, and they cheered in agreement.

John swallowed, nervous. He imagined all the other tributes backstage – gnashing their teeth in rage and jealousy. As far as he knew, no one else had captured the Capitol’s interest enough to warrant another minute of interviewing – not even Jim Moriarty.

“Another minute it is!” Caesar exclaimed, turning back to John. Without a moment’s pause, “So John, how does it feel, knowing your feelings are reciprocated? Especially given your uniquely difficult situation?”

This question caught John slightly off guard – did John even have any feelings for Sherlock to reciprocate? Or had John only been focused on winning the Capitol’s favor when he’d spoken? He couldn’t figure this out right now – he’d have to act like Sherlock’s lover for the cameras, but he’d have to really sort through his emotions when the cameras were off.

“I – I’m glad, really glad,” he replied. He wondered if he should explain that he’s not entirely gay, but instead he only liked Sherlock. Yes – that would make it more romantic; like Sherlock was the only one for John. “It’s strange, though – I’ve never liked a boy before. I guess it’s only ever been Sherlock, for me,” he revealed, causing the crowd to ‘aw’ softly.

Caesar smiled in kind understanding, but wasted no time in moving the interview along. “That must be hard on the boy; the possibility of losing his brother was so close, and now you’re here,” Caesar said solemnly. “And didn’t he lose his parents, as well?”

“Life has not been kind to Sherlock Holmes,” John said in reply.

* * *

“But that’s why I have to win for him – I want to give him something to be happy about,” John added, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile, letting his tears fall.

“He should be happy, though, shouldn’t he? His brother won eight years ago,” Caesar reminded John.

“But it’s different when it’s a lover, you know?” John asked, and the crowd showed their agreement.

* * *

“I agree, but I believe our time is up here. Best of luck to you, John Watson of District Twelve,” Caesar ended the interview, shaking John’s sweaty hand once more, and directing him off of the stage.

The roar of the crowd followed John out, and then he was faced with the other tributes. Jim Moriarty’s eyes never left John as Peacemakers directed them into a line, sorting them by the order they were interviewed. John listened as Caesar Flickerman recapped some of the more interesting tributes’ interviews, ending with, “…and John Watson, who has a new boyfriend waiting for him in District Twelve if he wins this year’s Hunger Games!” Once Caesar was done with his parting words, all of the tributes were called out again to stand in order, side by side as the anthem played.

John could feel all the eyes of Panem on him as he stood. If he went by sponsorship alone, he felt like he and Moriarty would be neck-in-neck. John couldn’t let that go to his head, though – he had to focus on winning the Hunger Games, for Sherlock. This wasn’t going to become a competition between him and Moriarty – that would get him killed. All he had to do was make it out alive and back to District 12 for the people who loved him most: his family and Sherlock.

* * *

The broadcast ended after the anthem was played, leaving the Watsons in stunned silence – all their surprise pinned on the boy in their sitting room.

Mr. Watson was the first to speak.

“You like our son, Sherlock?” he asked, looking at the boy who was staring fixedly at his hands in his lap.

“Yes,” he replied quietly, like a small child who was being reprimanded.

“Since when?” Mrs. Watson asked, her words no more than an exhale of breath.

“Since…” Sherlock thought for a moment. There was never a moment where he fell in love with John Watson – he never even got to decide it for himself – all the sudden he just thought about it, and he realized that he was. “…always? I don’t really....I don’t know for sure...” he could feel the judgment of John’s parents in the air, filling Sherlock’s lungs and choking him.

“But –” Mrs. Watson began, but Sherlock cut her off by standing up and facing them.

“I wasn’t going to tell him – ever. Ever since we met I’ve known he likes girls and John’s the first and last boy – not even boy but  _person_  I’ve ever liked. I could live with watching him grow old with someone he knew he loved, but I couldn’t live with the possibility of him dying in the Arena without knowing if anyone loved him.”

“No son of mine –” Mr. Watson began, raising his voice over Sherlock’s.

 _“But_  I couldn’t get it out to him before he left District Twelve, so my best bet of telling him was what I just did,” Sherlock interrupted, pointing at the empty screen. “And it worked – John’s now got about as many sponsors as Jim Moriarty! And the Capitol – pathetic and petty with their mansions and yachts and Technicolor hair as they are – took the fact that we’re both men much better than you, his own parents, did!”

With that, Sherlock stormed past them and out of the house, slamming the door behind him. He ran through the drizzly streets of District 12, to the damned Victor’s Village and into the mansion that he didn’t even win on his own, and locked himself inside.

That was the night he finished breaking all the glassware in his house.

* * *

When the anthem was over, the tributes were led back to the lobby of the training center, where they dispersed up the elevator to their rooms. Mary went up to their rooms alone, without speaking to John.

The only tribute that did talk to him was Victor Trevor. He approached John tentatively, avoiding eye contact until he was face-to-face with him.

“You did really well, tonight,” Victor began awkwardly.

“Thanks,” John replied, just as gracelessly. He glanced over at Greg, Sally, and Philip as they boarded the elevator. The only person to look back at John was Sally Donovan, who glared at him with disappointment. “You did too,” he muttered to Victor.

“Pfft, yeah – the most interesting thing about me was my hair,” Victor scoffed. “You, though…well… I’m sorry,” he said, looking away.

“For what? You haven’t done anything –”

“I have. Well, not really. But…I thought you were gay this whole time,” Victor mumbled, blushing, and John understood.

 _“Oh._  Oh god,” John finally said, realizing and feeling terrible. “Um. Well,” he searched for words, thinking. Fuck, he  _was_  gay too! But not really, he reminded himself, he only liked Sherlock, or so he kept saying. “You’re a great guy,” he finally began, and Victor looked up. “If I was totally gay and didn’t have Sherlock and we didn’t meet here and now, I’m sure we’d be together. But if you win this, you’ll find someone who’s so much better than me. And he’ll love you for everything you are. And for that, I wish you the best of luck.”

“Same here. I hope you get back to Sherlock.”

“Thank you, that means a lot to me,” John replied.

“This may sound weird, considering, but…can I hug you?” Victor asked, spreading out his arms. Still feeling the raw emotion of discovering Sherlock had a crush on him all of this time, John allowed for Victor to hug him, and he hugged him back.

“I’m going to miss you, Victor.”

“As am I, John,” Victor agreed.

It was then the elevator opened and, with a wave goodbye to Victor, John boarded the lift and went up to the twelfth floor of the training center. The doors opened, and Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson, Cinna, and Connie were waiting for him.

Expecting anger or disappointment like the rest of the tributes had given him, he was surprised when Mrs. Hudson hugged him.

“That was  _brilliant!”_  she exclaimed, squeezing him and kissing his cheek. “I’ve never seen Caesar allow more time than permitted! You will have  _so_  many sponsors!” she practically sang as she let John go.

It was then Mycroft placed his hand on John’s shoulder and smiled down at him.

“I admire your quick thinking; I don’t think I would’ve done as well as you did, tonight,” he informed him, squeezing his shoulder.

“Thank you,” John replied.

“You’re golden, John – you’ll have so many sponsors you won’t know what to do with them,” Cinna informed him, and John smirked.

“Hopefully, you know, stay alive,” John replied, causing the group to chuckle only slightly uncomfortably. “Where’s Mary?” John asked after a moment.

“In her room; I’ll go fetch her for dinner. Are you hungry, John?” Mrs. Hudson asked as she turned and walked toward Mary’s room.

John had skipped lunch out of nervousness for the interviews; now that it was over and went relatively well he suddenly realized how hungry he was.

“Starving,” he replied, and then turned to Mycroft. “How are you…?” he asked, for Sherlock  _had_  basically just come out to Mycroft on national television.

“I’ve had my suspicions. We’ll speak later, I assume?” he asked, arching an eyebrow, and John nodded in agreement. Mycroft probably knew that John had feelings he had to sort out; perhaps he could help him figure out how much was true and how much John was just faking for the Games, if anything. But for now, John was going to have to fake whatever he could for the cameras as well as for Cinna, Connie, and Mrs. Hudson. The only moment’s rest he could get between now and the next day would be when he was alone with Mycroft and the final time he would sleep in the Capitol.

* * *

About an hour and a half after Sherlock reached his house, there was a loud, rapid knocking on the door. With a sigh, knowing exactly who it was, he got up out of his bed, stormed out of his room, down the stairs, and into the hallway where he opened the front door to find none other than Harriet Watson.

Sherlock got a sense of déjà vu, for their eyes were both puffy and there was hungry feeling in his stomach despite the fact that he didn’t really want to eat. It was weird to think about how much had changed between then and now, even though it was such a short time.

“Sherlock –”

“Why should I let you in here?” Sherlock asked, yelling over her. “I told you that I didn’t want to go to your house – and what happened back there was why!” he explained, pointing behind her, back toward Harry’s house.

“You should’ve told me –” Harry began.

“I didn’t feel like I had to! That’s what having friends is like, isn’t it? If I tell you I need to do something you fucking  _listen!_  So give me one good reason why I should let you in – one reason!” he finished, glaring at Harry as her eyes filled with tears, and she screamed back at him:

“I fucking came out to my parents, too, okay?!”

They stared at each other for a moment, chests heaving in anger, until her words finally hit Sherlock’s ears, and he truly saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.

“Okay?” Harry repeated, this time more unsure than angry – as if she was afraid she wouldn’t be allowed to go home – and Sherlock opened his arms and she collapsed into him, sobbing.

And they stood like that for a long, long, time, with the rain falling around them serving as the only sign that time was moving, and that with every passing moment, John Watson – the boy they loved more than anything else in the world – would be going into the Hunger Games Arena, and into his certain doom. And, despite the anger that had flared up between them, Sherlock and Harry needed each other now more than ever, because they, above all, were absolutely terrified.

* * *

After dinner and the watching the rerun of the Interviews, Cinna, Connie, and Mrs. Hudson all went to their respective quarters for bed. Mrs. Hudson said her final goodbye to John, tearing up as she did so. When they finally did leave, they left Mycroft and John in the sitting room.

There was a moment of silence as they both thought about what to say to one another. It was Mycroft who spoke first.

“Do you know how you feel, John?” he asked. “About my brother?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “I wish I did, though. I – I don’t think what he did was just for the Games, and…I don’t know where I stand in it, either...”

“You should worry about tomorrow for now, John. Even though your romance with Sherlock – real or not – has gained you a great number of sponsors, it’s also gotten you a huge target put upon yourself,” Mycroft informed him.

“Right. What should I do about that?” John asked, trying to keep his voice level. Mycroft cleared his throat and leaned toward John.

“Play,” he told him.

“Play?” John repeated, confused.

“Yes. You’re playing them already, whether you’re in love with Sherlock or not. Continue the game. Start a war. Make it worth your win,” he told him.

John was taken aback by the response.

“That’s it? No…no words of wisdom? Nothing?” he asked.

“Just keep a clear head. Don’t do anything based off of a gut feeling. You’ve got this, John, especially considering the sponsors you’ll gain. I have faith in you.”

It was then John was overwhelmed with the crushing reality of the Hunger Games.

“I can do this?” he asked, feeling like a small child.

“Yes,” Mycroft promised him. “You should get some sleep. You’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

John nodded, suddenly not feeling as if he had control over his own body. He stood up and wandered to his room, but before he could get his hand on the doorknob someone stood in his way.

“You lied to me,” a girl’s voice said, and John focused long enough to realize it was Mary Morstan. “You said you didn’t know Mycroft.”

John took a moment to realize what she was talking about as she shifted her weight onto her other foot, freeing the path between John’s hand and the doorknob.

“I –” John began, unsure of what he was even going to say.

“No, I don’t want to hear it,” Mary said, cutting him off. “I thought we were friends, John.”

“We can’t be friends,” John found himself saying as he pushed his way past her, opened his bedroom door, and closed it behind him. He didn’t bother to change into pajamas, and just crawled into bed.

John did not know that he was asleep until Peacekeepers woke him up the next morning. He only remembered wishing he could stay up all night, as if that stopped the next day from coming. He wished someone could burst in and announce that this was all some big joke, seventy four years in the making. He wished tomorrow wasn’t coming at all, and that he didn’t have to go to the Arena. Sponsors or not, John felt it in his heart that he would die the next day. He probably wouldn’t make it past the bloodbath. He had no idea why his training score or his interview gave him any of the confidence that it did; he knew that no matter what happened, John Watson would lose.


	13. The Stockyards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey; sorry for the like one-million-year delay; my mental health hasn't been the best. I'll try to keep consistent with the every-other-Saturday schedule but no promises. Thank you guys for your patience <3

When the Peacekeepers woke John up at dawn, they only had to knock before John opened his eyes. By the time they opened the door, he had sat up and was rubbing his eyes as the three men filed in.

“Where’s Mrs. Hudson?” he asked, confused.

“Today you are to be delivered to the Arena for the Hunger Games,” one of the men reminded him.

“Right,” John breathed as his heart dropped into his stomach, and one of the other men presented him with a white shirt, pants, and undergarments to wear.

“Get dressed into these, and we’ll escort you onto the roof to travel to the Arena,” the first one said.

John nodded and took the clothes. Feeling exposed by the fact that these three men were asking him to get dressed in front of them, he asked to use the lavatory. They allowed it, and without a word he went and locked himself inside.

The thought of escaping crossed his mind for a moment, but when he was awake enough to remember that he was on the twelfth floor of the building the thought quickly vanished. He did his business and shed last night’s suit off of him, hands fumbling. He couldn’t find it in himself to cry just yet – perhaps it was too early, or the fear inside him had already sucked him dry of tears.

Once he had dressed into the clothes the Peacekeepers had presented him with, he unlocked the door and exited the room. From there, there was only one place to go: to the roof. There, the rest of the tributes boarded a Capitol Hovercraft – the one that would take them to the Arena. He watched as some of the other tributes walked ahead of him, and other tributes joined the line behind him. Molly Hooper joined the line behind John, her face tear-stained. John wanted to turn around and comfort her, but he had no idea of what to say.

With each new tribute that joined the line, three more Peacekeepers appeared, standing on either side and behind each tribute, guarding them. John wondered if tributes had tried to escape before, and what their punishments were for doing so. Maybe they weren’t punished at all – the Games were punishment enough.

Once John and everyone else had boarded the hovercraft and all sat down and strapped themselves in seats that lined the walls, the hovercraft took off. No one spoke, either because they were too tired to, or out of fear. The careers, on the other hand, didn’t seem too bothered by their situation. In fact, John could’ve sworn Jim Moriarty was smiling to himself, which only increased John’s anxiousness.

After a while, more Peacekeepers walked around with large syringes with sharp needles and gave a shot to each of the tributes. John watched as the boy who sat beside him, Andrew West, got the stick inserted into his forearm.

“What is this?” Andrew asked.

“It’s your tracker,” the Peacekeeper replied as she took the stick out of his arm, leaving a bump in his skin behind. Up on a screen at the front of the room, John saw a number “11” appear, along with other numbers as trackers got inserted into each tribute’s arms. When a Peacekeeper came to give John his tracker he looked away from the injection, not out of squeamishness, but to watch the moment his number “12” appeared on the screen. That’s all he was – just a number. He had stopped being a human being a long time ago.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes woke up on his sitting room sofa, to Harry Watson shaking him awake.

“Sherlock!” she cried. “Sherlock, wake up –”

“I’m up, I’m up – what happened?” Sherlock asked, sitting up.

“Sherlock…it’s today,” Harry announced in a worried voice, and suddenly all tiredness drained from him. Today marked the first day of the portion of the 74th Hunger Games that would take place in the Arena – this was the day John Watson would begin fighting for his life against twenty-three other kids.

Sherlock stood up.

“What time is it?” he asked, looking around for the clock.

“Eight?” Harry guessed. “We still have another two hours.”

“Fuck!” Sherlock groaned, sitting down again. He looked up at the ceiling, resting his head on the back of sofa. “This isn’t happening.”

“Fuck, Sherlock, it is – you know it is.”

“That doesn’t stop me from wanting it not to,” Sherlock said, bringing his legs up onto the sofa and hugging his knees.

Harry sat down beside him.

“Do you think he’ll win?” she asked.

“He has a chance; I’ve told you –” Sherlock began, but Harry cut him off.

“If John scored a nine or higher he had a chance of winning, and he got a nine so he has a chance, I know. But do you  _think_ , do you  _believe_  – that means no deductions or science or any other of your advanced-mind bullshit – that John will win?” Harry restated her question.

Sherlock mulled her question over in his mind. He wanted to have all the faith in the world for his best friend, but the truth was that the odds were stacked against him. He could only hope that John lived, but that would mean he would come back a changed man – in order to win, John had to kill. Sherlock understood that John had to do what he had to, but he knew the changes in a person that were made between the time they were reaped and when they returned home as a victor – he had seen his own brother make the changes before his eyes. He didn’t want to see John change, too, but he also knew that if he wanted John to win that’s what he would have to do. But could John do it?

“No,” Sherlock said quietly, barely breathing out the word.

There was silence as Harry considered his answer.

“He could, you know,” she said in a voice that was just over a mumble. “I have faith in him –”

“I do too – don’t deny my faith in him. He just...he’s too good. He wants to be a doctor – ever since I’ve known him he’s wanted to. Doctors heal and fix and help and it’s obvious to both of us that he chose that career because he cares about people so much but he’s – now he’s supposed to – he’s just expected throw all those morals and ideologies away so he can kill these other teenagers and...” Sherlock sighed in frustration, putting his head to his knees and running his hands through his hair. “He doesn’t deserve to be put through this,” he mumbled into his kneecaps.

“No one should,” Harry agreed.

“Especially not him.”

* * *

The ride to the Arena lasted about an hour, and John spent this hour with his eyes closed, determined on dehumanizing the people around him.

Greg Lestrade was just a number 5, and Philip and Sally were just number 10’s.

Victor Trevor was just a number 9.

The little Molly Hooper girl who probably cried herself to sleep last night was just a number 8.

Jim Moriarty was just a number 1, and Sebastian Moran was just a number 2.

Mary Morstan was just a number 12, and so was he.

He was just a number. There were plenty of 12’s before him, and there would be even more after him.

He wasn’t special, he didn’t stand out; the only thing that gave him any attention at all was Sherlock Holmes, and John wasn’t even sure if he was going to be able to thank Sherlock properly for making him stand out as much as he did.

No one was really going to die here – it would only be numbers being crossed off in a red pen. John could see it in his head: all the numbers lined up on a grid, and getting crossed off with a big red “X” one by one.

He had just crossed himself off when he realized that may have been how the careers thought about their opponents, and, overwhelmed by the idea of thinking like a killing machine like Sebastian Moran, John opened his eyes to discover that the hovercraft was close to landing.

That was when John’s hands began to slightly tremble.

Once the hovercraft had landed, the tributes were filed out and into the catacombs, under the Arena. As Peacekeepers led him to his Launch Room, he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that the Arena was just above him. In about an hour, he would be walking the ground he was walking under at that moment. In one hour, everything would change.

He also couldn’t help thinking about Sherlock – about back when they were kids and Mycroft was relaying information about the Games to them, hoping they would never see it for themselves. When Mycroft explained the Launch Room to them, Sherlock had called them Stockyards under his breath. John asked him later why he called them that, and Sherlock explained it to him bluntly: it was the place animals were sent to be killed.

The Peacekeepers explained that John would meet with his stylist before being sent into the Arena, so John was surprised when he found Mycroft Holmes sitting in his Launch Room – a room that contained a door to the bathroom, a circular metal plate in a glass tube that John would soon stand on, and a table set for two where breakfast had been served. John’s stomach churned in protest as the smell reached his nostrils.

“Mycroft?” John asked as the door closed behind him, his throat dry. “What –”

“I pulled a few strings,” Mycroft cut him off with a shrug. “Don’t worry – the Capitol can’t do anything to me because of it – since I’m a victor; I’m invincible.”

“What about Cinna?” John found himself asking.

“Cinna does wish you the best of luck, of course, but I imagined you’d feel more comfortable spending the rest of the time you have before the Games begin with someone you’ve known for almost half of your life.”

John found himself nodding.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

“Of course, John. Now come, sit,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the empty chair across from him, and John did as he was told. “Are you hungry at all?” he asked, concerned, and John shook his head. “You do understand that this may be your…”

“My last meal?” John asked, his voice empty.

“In a way, yes. Or the last meal that you’ll be having for a while. You should eat what you can, John,” Mycroft suggested.

“I can’t – I feel like I’d just throw it back up,” John declined. “You can eat though – I won’t mind.”

“At least drink some water, John,” Mycroft ordered, pouring John a glass. “You’ll thank me later, trust me.”

John sipped at his glass as Mycroft helped himself to the food John refused to eat.

“Did Sherlock ever tell you what happens to these places after the Hunger Games is over?” Mycroft asked. John shook his head, though that didn’t mean much – he was sure that if Mycroft decided to quiz him on his own physical appearance right then he wouldn’t get a single question right. “It becomes a vacation spot.”

“For who?” John asked.

“For the Capitol – who else? No one will use this room again for its intended purpose, nor will the land up above, but children can walk around and say that they stood where John Watson stood.”

“Why would they want to say that?” John asked, hardly smirking, and Mycroft returned the smirk.

“The Capitol is a very strange place, John – I’ve seen the way they root for tributes. The careers become teenage heartthrobs for about a month, and if they win, it’s great, and if they lose, that’s alright, as well. It’s almost as if we’re characters; not real people with lives or families.”

John mulled over Mycroft’s words, looking down at his clean, empty plate. He imagined the overly confident careers eating their fill without a care in the world. He could just see Jim Moriarty biting into the one of the biscuits that had been laid out for him; meanwhile John didn’t dare try to it force down. He thought of the Capitol families, full from breakfast, sitting down in front of their fancy televisions like the one that was in the penthouse at the training center, waiting excitedly for the 74th Annual Hunger Games to begin – for the twenty-four tributes to finally kill each other.

“I hate this place,” he mumbled, and he looked up to find Mycroft nodding solemnly in agreement.

“As do I, John. As do I.”

* * *

Neither Sherlock or Harry ate that morning – they simply watched the broadcast as Caesar Flickerman, Claudius Templesmith, and their special guest Seneca Crane all gave recaps of each tribute, ending with John Watson, the tribute with a boyfriend back home in District 12. They watched in silence as clips of the night before were replayed on-screen: John’s face when he saw the flower Sherlock had sent to him, and his declaration of love for his best friend.

Sherlock was the first to speak.

“That thing you did…for John and I…that was good. I appreciate it,” he informed her.

“What, coming out? I had to do it sooner or later…”

“Yes, but you may have chosen the worst opportunity to do so, but you did it anyway, for us.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Harry informed him, shrugging. “Can you...could you at least deduce if they’ll come around, though?” she asked quietly. “My parents?”

“Oh, they will,” Sherlock assured her. “If John makes it through the Bloodbath they’ll greet us with open arms, I think. Family values and sentiment and all that…”

“Sounds good,” Harry decided. There was a moment of silence between them. “How long?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Fuck.”

* * *

After breakfast, and when a voice over the intercom announced that there was twenty minutes until launch, Mycroft instructed for John to use the lavatory again, then shower and clean his teeth.

“When you’re done with that, get dressed into these,” Mycroft said, passing him the clothes John suddenly remembered choosing for the Games at a time that seemed like eons ago.

When John had done that, he exited the bathroom to find the table and chairs had been taken out, leaving nothing but the elephant in the room: the metal plate – John’s launch pad.

“I promised not to strategize with you when I suggested I be the one to see you out,” Mycroft informed him. “But, I want to hear what you’re thinking of doing when faced with the Cornucopia.”

Of course, the Cornucopia. The metal funnel-shaped statue would be the starting place of the Hunger Games – as it was every year. Filled with food, weapons, clothes, and all the other supplies one would need for the Hunger Games, the start of the Games was a wild goose chase, all in hopes of getting something particularly useful. There were normally bags and smaller supplies scattered around the funnel, but the closer one got to the horn, the more valuable the supplies were. At one point early on into this whole thing, John wondered if he had a chance, and he decided upon seeing Moriarty’s score of 12 that he didn’t.

“I – I’ll run,” John decided. “I’ll figure something out for weapons, but I’m not going to try to go in.”

“That’s wise,” Mycroft agreed, nodding.

It was then an announcement sounded over the intercom again.

“Attention all tributes: five minutes until Launch.”

“I have something for you, John,” Mycroft said, taking an object out of the breast pocket of his suit. “You’ll find Cinna made some adjustments.”

He opened his hand to reveal dog tags – the same dog tags Sherlock had gave him back in District 12. The only difference John could notice was they now had engravings: “J.W.” on one tag, and “12” on the other.

“My tribute Token,” John breathed. “That’s…that’s what Sherlock wanted it to be when he gave it to me,” he explained as Mycroft put the necklace around his neck. “I…” He thought he had lost it, but he suddenly remembered one of the members of his prep team confiscating it from him when he reached the Capitol, before he met Cinna. “…Thank you.”

“Of course,” Mycroft replied.

“I…If I don’t come back, tell Sherlock I… Tell him that I love him, yeah?” he asked.

“Have you thought about your feelings for Sherlock?” Mycroft asked as he adjusted John’s shirt.

“I haven’t, yet – I will, though,” John assured him. “I’d just…”

“You’d rather lie for his sake than die without him knowing for sure?” Mycroft guessed.

John nodded, as the intercom went off again.

“Attention all tributes: one minutes until Launch. Please proceed to the Launch Plate.”

John looked up at Mycroft, eyes fearful.

“I can’t do this, Mycroft –” he found himself admitting, and Mycroft took John into his arms – the first time John had seen him hug anyone other than his brother.

“I’m sorry, John,” Mycroft said, letting go of John. “I know it’s terrifying, but you can do this – you can win. We all have so much faith in you.”

“But –” John began.

“John Watson, look at me,” Mycroft ordered, leaning down so they were eye-to-eye and taking his hand. “Can you tell me what’s different, here?” he asked, holding his hand up for John to see. John glanced at his own hand.

“I – I don’t –”

“When you walked in here an hour ago, your hands were constantly shaking. Now there’s not a single tremor,” Mycroft informed him, and John glanced at his hand again to discover that, lo and behold, his mentor was correct. “I’ve never seen you so terrified, John, but your hands are still. That is a sign of a winner.”

“I –”

“I told you that you had potential. Now I know you do,” he said, and let go of John’s hand.

John hugged Mycroft one last time, thanking him for everything he had done to help him. It was then John stood on his Launch Plate.

“Goodbye, Mycroft,” John said as the glass cylinder closed down around him.

“Goodbye, John Watson. Good luck.” Mycroft replied, just as the cylinder closed completely, blocking all noise from getting in or out of the tube. 

* * *

Sherlock and Harry sat on Sherlock’s sofa, watching as cameras hovered around the field that held the Cornucopia – the starting place of the Games.

“Here they are – the tributes of this year’s Hunger Games!” Caesar Flickerman announced as the plates rose up out of the ground, revealing the 24 tributes, all in a circle formation around the Cornucopia.

“Fuck,” Harry groaned, pointing, her eyes filled with tears. “There’s John...”

* * *

John rose up out of the ground, facing the Cornucopia, and the countdown began. No one could move from their spots until the gong rang out, letting the tributes run. Anyone who stepped off their plate before then was blown sky-high. John glanced around at all the people around him as they prepared themselves to run toward the funnel. He looked at the Cornucopia, and all the supplies that laid on the ground around it. His eyes landed on a knapsack that was a mere thirty feet away from where he stood.

He could get it – most of the careers were clear across the circle from him – they surely couldn’t reach him from there. He could just run in, grab it, and run right back out.

John got in position to run.

* * *

Claudius Templesmith’s voice was the only sound in the Arena, counting down.

“Ten, nine, eight…”

“Sherlock?” Harry asked.

“Hm?” Sherlock replied, eyes glued to the screen.

“John has a chance?”

“He’s got a chance,” Sherlock replied.

“Six, five...”

“Come on, John,” Sherlock whispered.

“Three, two, one.”

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games begin!”


	14. The Bloodbath

The gong’s chime rang out, and the chaos began. John sprinted towards the knapsack. He looked up just for a moment to see Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran running to one of the two people beside them and snapping their necks – Sebastian went for the girl from his District, and Jim snapped the neck of little Carl Powers. Wasting no time, they ran for their next victims, and John focused on getting to the bag. 

* * *

Sherlock was too busy watching John from the aerial view to notice Molly Hooper running in the opposite direction until Harry made note of it.

“There goes Molly Hooper!” Harry exclaimed, pointing, and Sherlock chanced a glance away from John to notice her running off into the woods. He looked back to see –

* * *

Suddenly a spear landed in the ground just before John, and he tripped over it, falling flat into the grass, though he must’ve landed on a rock, for he tasted blood in his mouth as he realized he cut his lip.

* * *

“John!” Harry cried.

“No – GET UP!” Sherlock screamed at the screen, praying that the career nearby – Irene Alder – didn’t notice John as he stood up.

* * *

As soon as John got up off the ground he was running again, racing toward the bag. Once he got his hand wrapped around the strap, he pulled it up and continued his sprint, trying to leave the circle of starting places, but not before catching someone’s attention: Jim Moriarty.

* * *

Sherlock watched in agony as Jim Moriarty took a few steps to chase after John, but then left him to gather his posse. He joined Harry in yelling at John through the broadcast, as if he could hear them.

“RUN!” Harry shouted.

“Go go  _GO,_  JOHN!” Sherlock yelled as John passed his starting point, jumped over a dead body, and made his way into the woods.

“He did it!” Harry exclaimed as John went out of the camera’s field of vision. “He fucking did it – he survived the bloodbath!” she cried.

Sherlock’s eyes welled up with tears. Never in his life had he been so proud of anyone.

* * *

The fact that the worst was over now was the only thought that crossed John’s mind as he raced through the woods, dodging trees and winding through any obstacle placed before him. He put as much distance has he could between himself and the rest of the tributes.

He ran until he the land sloped downward, and he stopped at the bottom of the hill, a small distance away from a patch of bushes, to sit down on the slope and assess his situation. He heard shouts of others around him, at a distance, so he worked quietly at catching his breath and opening his newly-acquired knapsack, ready to run.

The bag obviously had a black-and-grey theme going for it, which John was thankful for. In a woodsy area like this, he would need dark colors to keep himself covered. The first thing he was able to pull out was a black hooded jacket, for the rain and cooler nights. John checked the pockets of the jacket (just for good measure) and found a matchbook. Just under the jacket was a canteen which John guessed could hold about a quart of liquid. He felt a weight within the canteen and shook it gently – it was about half full of water. John sighed in relief as he went back to the bag and addressed the last couple of items at the bottom of the knapsack. There was food: a package of beef jerky, two energy bars, and a single can of beans. And then, at the very bottom of the bag, was one last item that John had not yet explored. He pulled out a black binding that looked like a roll-up tool pouch his father would own. He undid the tie and unrolled the binding to reveal…

Knives. Five throwing knives, to be exact, lined up in a row and ready to be used.

John couldn’t help but to smile.

Maybe the odds were in his favor, after all.

* * *

Once the initial shock of the Bloodbath had died down the cameras cut away from the Cornucopia and revealed a blueprint-like map of the area, and little numbers all running in opposite directions, some chasing after others, some not.

“And there we go – the Games have officially begun, and gone off without a hitch if I do say so myself,” Caesar Flickerman said in a voiceover as Sebastian Moran caught up with a boy from District 3.

“It looks like the Bloodbath phase of the Games is wrapping itself up quite nicely with eight tributes lost so far, including Ella Thompson from District Two, both tributes from District Eleven: Beth Davenport and Andrew West, and Mike Stamford from District Three just now,” Claudius Templesmith agreed.

“But wait – it looks to me as if we’re about to have a little shuffle over in the west region of the Arena,” Flickerman pointed out, and the map zoomed in on a stationary number 12, and five numbers heading towards it: two 1’s, a 4, a 2, and an 9.

“Is that –” Harry asked Sherlock, but Claudius answered her before he could.

“It seems that John Watson from District 12 is in for a little surprise…”

* * *

Keeping one knife out of the bundle just in case, John packed his new belongings back into his knapsack, feeling more confident than he had been five minutes ago. He had his throwing knives. He remembered tossing knives with Greg Lestrade back in the training center, and how long ago that seemed from now. Greg – was he even still alive, at this point? What about Sally and Philip? What about Mary and Victor?

John shook his head – he was in the Arena, now. He could only think of himself.

It was then John heard it – the shuffle of leaves and the breaking of twigs as someone emerged from the bushes before him.

John looked up, ready to throw his knife at the newcomer.

The blond hair – the height –

Sebastian Moran.

Overcome with fear and adrenaline from his suddenly very-apparent fight-or-flight instinct, John whipped the knife into Sebastian’s right lung with all of his might.

* * *

“Oh my god –” Harry gasped, covering her mouth with her hands.

Sherlock stared at the screen, wide-eyed. John Watson – his best friend in the world – had just made his first kill.

* * *

“John!” Sebastian cried out, and it was only then – only after the knife plunged into Sebastian’s torso – did John realize that he did not just injure Sebastian Moran.

It was Victor Trevor.

The two boys stared at each other in wide-eyed terror as Victor fell to his knees before John, gasping.

“…John…” Victor gasped.

John crawled to Victor, closing the distance between them.

“Victor – Jesus –” John stammered, holding Victor up and letting him hold onto his arm. “I’m sorry – I’m so sorry –” John repeated profusely as Victor coughed, hacking up his own blood.

It was then John heard other voices, from not too far away.

“It’s coming from over here!” a girl called to her group – John was surprised to recognize the voice to be Kate Halstead.

The careers were coming.

“Victor we have to get up we’ve got to move now –” John begged in a whisper, digging his hands under Victor’s arms and trying to heave him up. Victor only leaned on John, unable to support his own weight.

“John – go –” Victor wheezed.

“No no no – I can fix this – please get up –” John pleaded with him, but Victor was hearing none of it.

With his spare hand, Victor pulled the knife out of his body, wincing in pain as he did so.

“Victor –” John whispered as Victor forced the knife into his hand.

“Run,” Victor whispered, trying to push John away from him.

“Victor, I –”

 _“John,”_  Victor whispered, tears coming to his eyes, begging for John to understand. This was it for him, and John knew it, too. As soon as he had taken the knife out of his body and opened the wound John knew he was doomed.

John gently – or, as gently as he could – laid Victor out on the ground and grabbed his knapsack. He gaped at the situation he was leaving behind him – the kind Victor Trevor, trembling and bleeding out of his chest and mouth on the ground. John couldn’t feel his legs – he couldn’t move from that place, frozen with shock.

It was then he heard a career at the top of the hill.

“Hey, Lover Boy!” Irene Adler called, and he looked up at her, still not finding it in himself to move his legs. “Want to play?” she asked with a smirk.

* * *

“No he does  _not,”_  Sherlock found himself growling at the screen as Irene quickly moved her arm, and a loud  _crack_  was heard. Irene Alder had a whip.

“That bitch!” Harry cried out. “Can you even kill someone with a whip?” she asked.

“Not unless you try really hard,” Sherlock replied. “It appears that…well…Irene likes to…torture,” he revealed, his voice betraying how sickening the thought of Irene “playing” with John was to him. “Come on, John, don’t just stand there – run.”

And then, as if John could hear him, he took a few steps backward, still staring up at Irene and her whip, and then turned around and bolted away from the scene.

* * *

John ran through the forest, ducking and dodging through trees and bushes, sprinting straight and zigzagging and making abrupt turns – anything to shake the careers from his path.

He glanced back behind him occasionally, trying to see where the careers were. Once he looked back and couldn’t see them, he dived into a nearby bush, knowing it was better to hide before he ran out of steam again, this time with nowhere to turn The bush was surprisingly pretty spacious, but John hugged his knees to his chest and stayed completely still as the careers approached.

* * *

For some convenient reason, there was a camera located inside John’s bush, giving the viewers of Panem the perfect view of John staring wide-eyed out at the careers just outside.

“I think we lost him,” the career from District 4, Kate Halstead, decided.

“Where the fuck could’ve he gone?” Sebastian Moran asked, his voice half angry and half indifferent.

“He’s probably in one of the bushes,” Irene suggested.

Sebastian turned to Jim Moriarty, who had just entered the clearing himself. “What do you think?”

“He’s got to be somewhere… Check those bushes, Seb – Irene, Kate; over there,” Moriarty ordered, directing Sebastian, Irene, and Kate to other bushes.

He watched them as they searched – Sebastian taking no time in actually searching but instead stabbing each bush he came across – until Moriarty decided to search for himself.

He turned toward John’s bush.

“No no no you turn around  _right fucking now,”_  Harry begged.

Slowly and deliberately as possible, as if he knew that Sherlock had his eyes glued to the projection, Jim Moriarty reached into the bush.

* * *

John’s heart thundered in his chest as he leaned away from Jim’s hand. He dared not even breathe, fearing that if he even exhaled Jim would realize he was there.

* * *

“How are we watching this?” Harry murmured, horrified and sounding like she was about to cry. “How are we just _watching_ this?”

Sherlock honestly had no idea.

* * *

Once Jim reached far enough into the bush to be satisfied, he closed his hand, making a fist. He pulled his arm out as Sebastian Moran approached.

“Jim, that’s not gonna do anything. You’ve got to be thorough – like this,” Sebastian said, and suddenly there was a knife between John’s eyes, just enough to leave a mark on his skin, but not on the knife itself.

* * *

“FUCK!” Harry screeched.

“Oh that is  _close!”_  Caesar Flickerman exclaimed.

Sherlock, like John, was too shocked to breathe.

It was then Sebastian took his knife out of the bush, and the careers decided that John really wasn’t in the bushes, after all, and, interpreting some sort of animal up ahead as another tribute according to the map in the corner, ran off.

The cameras followed after the tributes, but not before giving Panem one last shot of John to remember him by: sitting in the bushes, stunned, with teary eyes and a single drop of blood forming on his face.

* * *

John Watson remained frozen in the bush, too afraid to cry.

He had just killed an ally – someone he considered a friend. He couldn’t seem to get the image of Victor gasping his name with blood pouring out of his mouth out of his mind, and just when he thought he had finally made it go away he closed his eyes, and it would be there again, waiting for him.

He also was almost killed by the careers – he was literally a millimeter away from dying on the first day.

Irene had called him Lover Boy. So that’s what he was to them? John proved he had a heart and wasn’t a total killing machine – did that  _really_  warrant him such a blaringly large target on his back?

Apparently, it did.

John didn’t know how long he sat in the bush, but he was suddenly brought back into the present when he heard the cannons begin.

After a Bloodbath was officially over, the Capitol began shooting cannons. When a tribute died in the Games, a cannon was shot to symbolize the lost life, but on the first day, the cannons were shot in a series, representing those who died in the Cornucopia.

John listened and counted each shot – nine tributes were dead. There were still fourteen other tributes out there that could very easily kill him.

He couldn’t win this – he couldn’t possibly win this.

* * *

Sherlock and Harry watched as the cameras went from tribute to tribute, showing the nation how they were doing. The only tribute they weren’t showing was John.

“Where is he? Why aren’t they showing him?” Harry asked. “Shit, did…do you think someone…?”

“No. They’ll show him if he gets killed – that’s what the Hunger Games is all about, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, disgusted.

Harry stood up.

“I need a gin – wanna split?”

“No, I’m good,” Sherlock replied.

* * *

John had only begun to think about just hiding out in the bush, living off its berries, when he noticed an ant crawling upon his knee; a red ant. In fact, there were suddenly a lot of red ants crawling on him.

He quickly stood up and got out of the bush and shook his legs and arms of the ants, brushing himself off. He was there for a long time – it was late in the afternoon, as far as he could tell. Those ants would’ve been at him hours ago if they were natural. The Capitol had a knack for getting tributes out of their hiding places – in comparison to other years (that included fire, floods, avalanches, and man-eating beasts), John was thankful he had only encountered an army of red ants to chase him out of his hiding place.

Only suffering a few bites, he decided to make camp for the night. He knew the Capitol thought he had stayed still for too long and wanted him to start moving, so this place and the surrounding area was no longer an option.

So he began walking.

* * *

During the dull moment of the Games, while everyone was recovering from the Bloodbath and forming alliances, Caesar and Claudius recapped the Bloodbath, giving an in-depth analysis of what each of the remaining tributes had done so far.

At first, Sherlock imagined it would be another game of “wait for John to appear,” until he noticed the girl who was sent to the Capitol with John, Mary Morstan, slice Sebastian Moran’s face with a spear during his recap.

“Jesus! I did  _not_  expect that from her!” Harry gasped.

“I don’t think anyone did,” Sherlock said.

When Mary’s recap rolled around they watched as she dodged one of the fallen tributes failed attempts at attack, ran into the mouth of the Cornucopia, and gather a knapsack of supplies, a sack of apples, and a spear for herself. She threw the supplies bag on her back and spun around to find Sebastian approaching, sword in hand. Thinking fast, she swung the spear, clipping Sebastian’s eye. He stumbled back, one hand going for his face. While he was distracted, she swung the bag of apples and bludgeoned him in the head. While he was most certainly stunned, she stomped on his foot, and then decided to run away into the surrounding wood, dodging Irene Adler throwing a knife at her as she went.

Compared to John’s recap, showing him run thirty feet out, trip over a spear, gather one small bag, run away, kill someone by accident, and hide in a bush, he looked inadequate. Not at all like the nine he had received for a training score. 

* * *

John had found a bed of rocks at dusk, and found a little cave to sleep in. At first he mistook it for some sort of bridge – a flat boulder lying atop of two other boulders – but then upon realizing that bridges don’t normally have a back wall to them, he looked under the bridge to find a perfect sleeping spot. The space was cramped, of course – John had about sixteen inches to work with, but it was worth it.

* * *

After the summary of the Bloodbath, the Capitol decided to check in on the tributes. The only one worth watching besides John’s was the careers. Just as Sherlock had predicted (only because this happened practically every year), the careers had claimed the Cornucopia and most of its supplies for their own.

The five careers – the four that had chased after John, and another career that Sherlock imagined stayed behind to guard their new base – all sat on crates in a circle just outside the mouth of the horn. With a fire pit in the center of the circle, unafraid of being spotted, they recounted their day and congratulated each other on their kills, which made Sherlock’s stomach churn.

After a few minutes of watching them talk, Moriarty reached into a bag beside him, pulled out a tube of ointment, read its effects to himself, and tossed it past Irene to Moran.

“Here – heal yourself up, Tiger,” he suggested.

Sebastian glanced at the tube.

“Don’t need it – I’m fine,” Moran declined, holding it back out to Moriarty.

Moriarty stood up and crossed the circle, taking and pocketing the ointment and taking Sebastian’s chin in his hand, making the older boy look up at him.

“You know what? You’re right. The scars will look nice on you,” Moriarty decided.

There was something about the way he talked to Moran that caught Sherlock’s attention. His mind searched for a possibility, and settled upon the worst one: the game changer.

“Oh, no,” Sherlock whispered, and Harry looked at him.

“What?” she asked, just as Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran kissed.

“Well! It looks like we have some star-crossed lovers in our Arena!” Caesar announced. “A lot of hormones in this Hunger Games, don’t you agree? First we have a viewer reveal his love for John Watson of District Twelve, and now our most promising careers have fallen for each other in such a short amount of time, and under such terrible circumstances.”

“It does seem that way, indeed!” Templesmith agreed. “What a twist!”

Sherlock, feeling too disgusted to look at the screen at the moment, fell onto one of the sofa’s pillows and groaned. He emerged once the careers were no longer hogging the broadcast.

After showing a few more tributes, the cameras finally decided to show John, trying to clear out a place for him to sleep in a group of rocks. He was a good distance away from everyone, according to the map they kept in the corner of the screen at all times.

“And here’s our tribute with a boyfriend back home: John Watson, attempting to live under a rock for the night,” Caesar introduced.

Sherlock grimaced at the thought of the Capitol laughing at his stupid joke.

“Let’s give him and the other tributes the run-down of the day before they go to sleep, shall we?”

* * *

As John was cleaning the leaves out from under the rocks, the anthem played, signaling the end of the first day. He took a break from making his new bed and pulled his new jacket on, looking up at the sky above him and seeing a projection of the Capitol’s seal. It was time for the death toll.

John watched as people’s names and Districts appeared, next to their headshots from back in the Capitol. John recognized the first two – Ella and Carl – from the Bloodbath that morning, and Andrew West from the hovercraft to the Arena. The last person in the death recap was Victor Trevor.

Mary, Greg, Sally, and Philip were all still alive, but that barely mattered to John in that moment.

John had finished the Bloodbath by taking Victor’s life.

* * *

“…and, sadly, Victor Trevor was not  _our_  victor,” Caesar Flickerman said, showing the clip of John throwing his knife into his torso. “So who will win this year? Only time will tell. Be sure to tune in tomorrow, and thank you for tuning in today. The Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games have begun,” Claudius Templesmith announced, and then the screen went black, ending the broadcast.

“…Fuck, give me some of your gin,” Sherlock said, suddenly extremely exhausted.

“Get your own – you need it,” Harry said, and finished off her bottle. “And get me another one, would you?”


	15. Do-Or-Die Central

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I never turned on my computer yesterday because I was out for most of the day please forgive me for the delay! (Also, small trigger warning for homophobia; a few characters are dicks but the worst that's done is a few slurs are said.)

“John!” John heard his name called in a harsh whisper, and the sudden noise caused him to launch himself into a defensive position on his hands and knees, preparing to run away.

He would’ve done this if the ceiling of his boulder home wasn’t so low. Instead of retreating as quickly as he could, he slammed the back of his head on the rock above him, and crumpled back down onto the ground.

“Augh – fuck –” he cursed and opened his eyes to notice three pairs of feet before him – he was cornered.

He tried shuffling backwards, as if that would honestly help against a knife like Sebastian Moran’s, but then the person in the center of the group kneeled down before the opening and showed John his face.

“John!” Greg Lestrade cried out quietly, seeming happy to find him.

“Greg,” John sighed out in relief, and the group backed off to let John get out of his crevice and stand up. He felt the urge to hug him, but then remembered the cameras were probably – no, definitely – upon him. He couldn’t imagine what the Capitol would think of him hugging another boy, or even another tribute, when he was supposed to be fused to Sherlock back home.

God, he missed Sherlock.

“I knew we’d find you eventually,” Greg said as John dusted himself off. He wondered what he looked like to them as he found his hands stained red from Victor’s blood.

“You look terrible,” Sally said as John straightened up, and Greg nodded in agreement.

“Who’d you kill?” Philip asked, vaguely pointing at his hands.

“Um,” John looked down at his hands. Would they believe him if he said that it was an accident? Sally looked constantly skeptical of John – would she believe any answer he gave? Would they hate him for killing someone they all considered to be a good person? He pulled a name out of his mind – the tribute he had sat next to the morning previous – “Andrew West,” John lied, hoping none of them had actually seen Andrew West’s death.

They nodded, somberly.

“I’m sorry about Victor – did you see?” Greg asked, pointing at the sky above them. “He died during the Bloodbath.”

John tried to look surprised.

“Oh, god,” John murmured, trying not to sound like he already knew.

“I know you liked him,” Greg continued.

“But we all know he’s got a thing for Sherlock Holmes,” Sally recalled.

“That’s right,” John said for the cameras. “But I _can_ be friends with other guys, you know,” he informed them, thinking of his sister and all the shit she got from other girls just for liking other people of her gender.

“No, you can’t,” Philip said, and it was then John noticed that he had been standing further away from John than Sally and Greg had been.

“…What makes you say that?” John asked.

“Philip –” Greg started.

“No, he’s right,” Sally stopped him.

“You’re gay, and I don’t want you near me. I don’t know what you’d do, and I don’t want to find out,” Philip told John.

Despite the anger that was threatening to boil over, John kept his composure.

“I’d do nothing,” he assured him, slowly.

“Yeah, you’d better not, fag,” Philip concluded, and he and Sally began to walk off.

John looked at Greg, outraged.

“You don’t think that way, right?” John asked.

“No, of course not. Look…I’ll talk to him – keep him in line – if you want to stay with us,” he told him.

John thought about his options. He could stay with Greg, Sally, and Philip, and even though he would be with two people who seemed to hate him only because he loved Sherlock Holmes, it would give him a share of more supplies (both Sally and Greg had packs from the Cornucopia) and three less people actively trying to kill him; or he could go off on his own, and even though he’d be away from Sally and Philip, he’d be leaving Greg, the first real ally he made back at the Capitol, and the only person who still honestly liked him besides Victor, behind.

“Okay.”

* * *

Sherlock looked away from the television at the sound of people outside, and he peeked out from behind his curtains to find about ten reporters, straight from the Capitol, standing in his yard, waiting for Sherlock to give his feelings on the fact that John Watson narrowly survived the Bloodbath.

He dashed up the stairs to the bathroom where Harry was taking a shower and getting dressed, and knocked on the door.

“Harry, we’ve got a problem,” he said through the door.

“I’m decent,” she called, and Sherlock entered the bathroom to find Harry in front of the mirror, fully dressed in a blue button-up tank top and denim capris, putting up her hair into the ribbon John had returned to her during their last meeting. “What’s the problem?” she asked as she finished tying her hair up, turned around to face Sherlock, and leaned on the sink behind her.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bathtub and spoke, “There are reporters outside.”

“Reporters?” Harry repeated. “Oh, right – because John made it through the Bloodbath?”

“Right,” Sherlock affirmed. “The same thing happened when Mycroft made it this far. They go to family and friends and such to hear their ‘feelings’ or whatever,” he waved the thought off. “They’re probably at your house, too.”

“What did you do, then?” Harry asked. “I don’t remember.”

“I waited them out, of course.” In fact, Sherlock distinctly remembered steering the reporters away from the Watson’s the night before by sleeping at his own house, and when the Capitol’s finest and loudest reporters showed up the next morning, he hid under his mother’s bed, quiet as a mouse, hoping the reporters weren’t desperate enough to break into the house to talk to him. “I don’t think I can do that, this time.”

“Definitely not. You’re a symbol of love, now!” Harry exclaimed.

“Great.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “So I guess we’ll just have to go through them all together and answer all their questions, I suppose...” he decided, starting to stand back up.

“Um, bad idea,” Harry said, and Sherlock sat back down.

“Why’s that?” he asked, crossing his arms.

“Think about it: we’re going to walk out of your house, together, early in the morning, when they didn’t see me come in – they’ll know I spent the night. What could that say about me? About you? About  _John?”_ Harry asked, and Sherlock stared up at her, confused.

“I’m not following,” he admitted slowly.

“Whatever; never mind,” Harry said, waving the thought away. “The point is: you should be here, but _I_ should be at home. My home.”

“I could go out there, and you could go sneak out the back door, hop over the fence, and get past them through the neighbor’s yard while they’re all busy talking to me,” Sherlock suggested. “And then I’ll meet you at your house.” At the look of Harry’s face, he changed their meeting spot. “Or we could meet one block away from your house, over by the Davies’. Then we’ll face your parents together.”

“I could go out there, and you could go sneak out the back door, hop over the fence, and get past them through the neighbor’s yard while they’re all busy talking to me,” Sherlock suggested. “And then I’ll meet you at your house.” At the look of Harry’s face, he changed their meeting spot. “Or we could meet one block away from your house, over by the Davies’. Then we’ll face your parents together.”

“That’s better,” Harry replied. “I knew you’d come up with something.”

“I always come up with something,” Sherlock said, as it was obvious.

“Damn straight,” Harry agreed, and then smiled to herself. “Sherlock Holmes: my man with a plan.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, unable to keep a flattered smile off his face, and with that, they went their separate ways: Sherlock to the front of the house, and Harry to the back.

When Sherlock reached the front door, he took a deep breath, prepared to answer any question that he was asked.

_“Yes, of course I’m glad John made it through.”_

_“I was on the edge of my seat, just like you.”_

_“I’ll never regret giving him that flower.”_

_“I expect he’ll come back to me.”_

_“I miss John so much.”_

He opened the door.

* * *

Philip and Sally walked ahead of Greg and John, holding hands as they did, as if assuring the audience that they were attracted to the opposite gender or something. John tried not to notice.

“So what happened?” Greg asked.

“Hm?”

“During the Bloodbath – you’re still here, you’ve got someone else’s blood on your hands, you’ve got a pack – what happened?” Greg repeated.

“Oh, well…I was lucky,” John replied. “It was sheer, dumb luck. Nothing else.”

“Really? For you? You got a nine for a training score. I’ve seen the way you handle a knife. _We_  got out with luck,” Greg said, gesturing to Sally and Philip up ahead.

“What did you do?” John asked, trying to avoid his question.

“Sally and I went into the mess and got these,” Greg began, pointing at the knapsack about the same size as John’s on his back and the fairly large duffle bag Sally was carrying on her back. “We went through and sorted everything last night – this one’s got the food, and that one’s got everything else,” he explained.

“What did Philip do?” John asked.

“He –”

“It doesn’t matter what I did!” Philip snapped, deciding for them.

“Philip hid,” Greg whispered to John.

“Greg!” Philip exclaimed, annoyed, turning around.

“Hey, you’re being a bit of a dick, so shut up and turn your back,” Greg replied, and Philip rolled his eyes and turned back around. “So what did you get?” he asked, gesturing to John’s pack.

“Um...” John didn’t want to brag about his haul, just in case the group’s haul wasn’t that great after all. “Little bit of food, some water, a jacket…oh, and some knives –”

“Nice!”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Is that how you killed West?” Sally asked, turning back.

“Well…yeah,” John answered awkwardly. “It was an accident, though. He surprised me and –”

“An accident?” Philip repeated, stopping in his tracks, causing everyone to do the same.

“You’re gonna last long,” Sally scoffed. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the  _Hunger Games Arena;_  do-or-die central. There’s no such thing as an accident, here.”

“Well, last time I checked, we didn’t exactly  _ask_  to be here, did we? Did  _you?_  I didn’t see you volunteer for anyone –”

“Yeah, but if I remember correctly you  _denied_  a volunteer. Someone willingly said ‘I’m gonna give my life for this idiot’ and you said  _‘no!’_  In fact, it was your best friend – your little admirer! He would rather himself get killed to keep you alive and you  _denied_  him the chance to  _save you!_  And you know what? Now you have no chance of going back to –”

“Hey!” Greg called out, and Sally finally stopped. “Let’s keep moving, shall we?”

And with that, the group walked in silence.

* * *

Once the paparazzi cleared the Watson home, Sherlock and Harry stood on the front step, prepared to knock.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” Harry replied, obviously nervous, and Sherlock knocked on the door.

It was Mrs. Watson who answered.

“Harry!” she cried, and hugged her daughter. Sherlock took to standing beside them awkwardly before Mrs. Watson pulled him into the hug, as well. “Come in; it’s almost time for lunch,” she said after straightening up, inviting them in, almost as if the night before never happened.

Mr. Watson was already at the table when they filed into the kitchen, and he hugged his daughter, as well, expressing how glad he was that she was home as Mrs. Watson set the table.

Harry and Sherlock sat quietly and waited for Harry’s parents to speak, to ask their questions.

“Harry?” Mrs. Watson finally began, once everyone was lunch was served and everyone began eating and Harry looked up. “Were you and Clara…in a relationship?” she asked, seeming uneasy.

“Yep,” Harry said.

“Was she…your first…you know…?” she asked.

“No, she wasn’t. There was Mia and Olivia and Amy, too,” Harry revealed, and both of her parents looked taken aback by the news. “Mom, I’m sorry, but…this is me. It’s always been me.”

Mrs. Watson shook her head and returned to her lunch, and Sherlock moved his foot to touch Harry’s in comfort. She glanced at him as he wondered when Mr. Watson would address him and his feelings for John.

It didn’t happen until after lunch, when Mrs. Watson brought Harry upstairs to give her one of the dresses that she had “grown out of.” Sherlock deduced that she had done no such thing, but really she just wanted Harry to be more feminine and therefore, somehow, more attracted to the opposite sex. In fact, she had went out and bought the dress specifically for Harry’s return.

“I know what you’re doing,” Mr. Watson said after a moment, after the women left. “You’re just lucky John decided he would stain his reputation here to help you along.” Sherlock stared at Mr. Watson, confused and frustrated. “But if he dies in that Arena, you will be the one to tell everyone that you didn’t mean it, and it’s their decision as to whether or not they believe you.”

“And if John lives?” Sherlock asked. “I mean, what if – god forbid – my feelings for John are not just an act and John’s feelings for me are legitimate, and he comes home and actually wants to be with me? Are you going to ban us from seeing each other? You know that can’t happen, surely? Chances are we’d be living side-by-side in the Victor’s Village, and John and Mycroft would have to meet for their duties as Mentors. Not to mention the fact that the Capitol loves us - every time someone from the Capitol came we’d have to suddenly become a couple again, ruse or not. There’s no way he and I could avoid each other just because you want us to,” Sherlock informed him.

John’s father stared at Sherlock for a few moments, and Sherlock could hear Harry and her mother speaking to each other from behind her parents’ bedroom door – Mrs. Watson’s loud and almost overly-peppy, and Harry’s quieter and monotone.

Finally, Mr. Watson spoke again.

“…I can’t control my son, just like I obviously can’t control my daughter,” Mr. Watson admitted, the disappointment showing. “But, if your…feelings for my son are real, as soon as those cameras stop rolling you’ve got to give that boy a choice. Ask him what he wants, and listen to his answer. If he wants you away from him, you stay the hell away. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock agreed. “John’s thoughts about this are my utmost concern –”

“Are they, though? Because it seems to me like you just forced his hand on national television.”

Sherlock was at a loss for words for a moment, because, in a way, Mr. Watson was right. The best-case scenario was that John was truthful when he announced his love for Sherlock, and when he returned he and Sherlock could live out a happy life together; the worst-case scenario was John being untruthful, and thus subjecting himself to a life he didn’t want: only loving Sherlock just for the Capitol.

No, that wasn’t the worst-case scenario. The worst that could happen was John could die in the Arena.

“We’ll see what John wants, then,” was the only thing Sherlock could say in response, and then stood. “Send my best to Harry, and good day to you,” he concluded, pushing in his chair.

He only paused and listened to what Mr. Watson was saying when he had his hand on the doorknob.

“We’re not  _mad_  at you, Sherlock. You’re not banned from our house or anything. But you’ve got to understand what you’ve done to John with this.”

Sherlock left without a word, went into town, and bought as much liquor as he could with what he had in his pocket. If Harry was ever allowed back into his house, she would need it. If she wasn’t, on the other hand, Sherlock could take up a new hobby…

* * *

The group found a river that afternoon. John refilled his nearly-empty canister, and Greg gave him two more canteens to fill while he talked to Sally and Philip about their behavior towards John, obviously thinking that that was the best time for him to do so.

Constantly keeping his eyes peeled for any careers, John filled the containers to the brim and capped them. Once putting his water back into his bag he washed his hands of Victor’s blood as much as he could. He cursed himself for killing Victor and, much less, waiting this long to wash his hands. It seemed like no matter what he did, Victor’s blood remained in the crevasses of his palms.

He thought back to the Capitol’s wonderful soap, rich with chemicals that made his hands smooth as silk; he thought even further back to the goat’s milk soap his mother bought for him for special occasions, like the first day of school or a reaping ceremony.

He cursed the reaping Ceremonies, and the Hunger Games as a whole. He cursed everything he could for giving him this life. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he didn’t deserve this – everything he had done did _not_ lead up to washing his hands of someone else’s blood.

How were his parents doing, considering he had just killed someone and told the entire nation of Panem he was in love with another boy? Were they proud of him for making it this far, or disgusted that he had killed someone to get there? Did they care more about the fact that he was surviving the Games or that he was supposedly head-over-heels in love with Sherlock? How was Harry taking everything?

He thought of Sherlock. God, he must have destroyed the entirety of the Victor’s Village by now, knowing him. He chuckled to himself at the thought of coming home to seeing the place he had come to know so well had become nothing but piles of ash and rubble. Of course, there was a good chance he wouldn’t live to see that.

No, he couldn’t think like that – he had to live – he had to win. If at the very least, he had to win to joke with Sherlock about how much he had broken while he was gone. He hadn’t realized how much he missed him – he missed the nights of watching Sherlock casually shoving vases over whenever he was pissed watching the Games – he was probably full out throwing them, at this point – his eyes fire and ice at the same time... At this thought, John caught himself. Christ, was he really thinking about the way his eyes looked at a time like this? Maybe he _was_ falling in love with Sherlock…

The sound of a cannon tore through the air, ripping John from his thoughts. Someone had just died. He looked back at the three other tributes. They were all still alive, so –

“Who do you think it was?” he called to the others.

“I’ve got my fingers crossed for Moran,” Greg replied, raising his hand to show that his fingers were indeed crossed.

“Why not Moriarty?” John asked.

“Because I’m desperate,” Lestrade replied. “Have you seen how big Moran is? He’d crush us like bugs.”

It was then Philip pointed behind John.

“Hey, what’s that?” he asked, and John turned around again to find a parachute was in the water, tangled in a low-hanging branch.

“It looks like a sponsor gift,” Sally said, getting closer. “It must’ve been travelling the river…”

John took off his boots and socks and rolled up the legs of his pants to wade through the water – the package didn’t seem too far –

“What are you doing?!” Philip called, upset.

“He’s getting the gift, what do you think he’s doing?” Greg replied, and John stepped into the water.

“You better not open it if it’s for me!” Philip yelled as John approached the parachute, waist-deep in the river.

“Keep your voice down!” John hissed, glaring at the boy as he took out his knife and cut the metal package free. It was small enough for John to easily hold with one hand as he waddled back to shore, but it was clearly marked with a large number 12. “It’s for me, anyway.”

“What?!” Philip cried, racing to meet John, ripping the package from his hands and checking for himself, as Sally and Greg looked on from just behind him. Once Greg was satisfied, he took the tin back from Philip and handed it back to John.

“Here you go, John. Come on, let’s give him space to open it,” he urged as John sat on a rock to retrieve his socks and boots.

“Thanks,” he said to Greg as they left and, once he was ready, opened the tin.

Covering his gift was a note from Mycroft, which John read to himself.  _Live in the present moment. – M.H._  John found himself nodding in agreement. What’s done was done – he couldn’t risk dwelling on it for much longer. He took a breath and pocketed the note, revealing his gift: a small bar of Capitol soap.

John stood up and called the others.

“Hey, I got soap!” he announced quietly.

“From the Capitol?” Greg asked.

“Yeah; it’s for…you know,” he raised his hand awkwardly, showing off whatever blood was still on it. “Want to share?”

Even Philip couldn’t say no.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will come out on FRIDAY OCTOBER 23RD because REASONS :D


	16. The Most Important Question

When Sherlock reached his home in the Victor’s Village, he opened the door to find that his phone was ringing. Fearing the worst, he raced to the phone and picked it up.

“Mycroft –” Sherlock was just able to say before his brother cut in.

“Sherlock, where have you been? I’ve called you five times,” he informed his younger brother.

“I’ve been at the Watson’s all day,” Sherlock quickly replied before getting to the point. “Is John –”

“John is fine, but you’re in a world of trouble,” Mycroft informed him, outraged. Sherlock sighed, frustrated. First John’s parents, and now his own brother?

“Mycroft, I –” Sherlock tried.

“Do you understand how lucky you are that the Capitol loves the idea of you and John so much?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes, obvious – wait, what was that?” Sherlock asked.

“Have you not  _seen_  yourself? You’re all over the broadcast!” Mycroft exclaimed, and Sherlock turned toward the television to find that, lo and behold, just as Mycroft said, Sherlock’s own face was being broadcast for all of Panem to see.

Sherlock knew exactly what was happening, for what he was watching happened that very morning. He had to remind himself that of course it would be broadcasted hours after it happened – the Capitol probably had technology that sent the video from District 12 to the Capitol faster than the reporters themselves could travel.

The Sherlock on the screen was standing on the Holmes’ front porch, answering the questions of the reporters.

“How do you feel now that you know that your feelings for John Watson are reciprocated?” one reporter asked.

“I am eternally grateful for what we have. I can only hope that he returns, so that we can live a happy life together, in a real relationship,” Sherlock replied calmly.

“John lived through the first day of the Hunger Games – are you relieved?”

“Of course I am, but I know there’s more to come. I’m extremely proud of him for making it through, and with good reason. This brings him one day closer to coming home to me.”

“What did you think when he killed Victor Trevor?” another asked.

“I was on the edge of my seat, just like all of you, I’m sure,” he said.

“Do you think that John Watson has a chance of winning? Do you think he’ll live to win the Hunger Games with people like Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran in the Arena?” one of them, a chubby woman, called out, her tone skeptical, and Sherlock’s entire demeanor changed before his own eyes.

Something flashed in his eyes, and he looked down at the woman, eyeing her analytically, deducing her very being. It was then he opened his mouth, and his findings spilled out like a river into all of the microphones and cameras on the Holmes’ front lawn.

He shared how many kids she had (three – all under the age of ten), and how she had scheduled her wedding to her second husband around the Hunger Games last year (as all citizens of the Capitol did), and how she was hoping that going to District 12 now would help distract her from divorcing said second husband just last week and show her boss that she’s more than capable of handling her position after giving him a terrible story the week of the divorce. She even wore green and black to show that she was  _“so”_  focused with this interview with little Sherlock Holmes from District 12; wearing black for the mines and green for the trees they could see beyond the fence. He shared with Panem what she had for breakfast that morning, and that the drumming of her fingers revealed that she was simply  _starving_  for lunch, even though some of the citizens of District 12 – some  _children_  from District 12 –were  _literally_  starving for any kind of food whatsoever.

“Don’t you dare ask me that question when you yourself have made your own inferences that John’s going to die. Don’t ask me if he will live when you are the ones who took him away from me. The same goes for his mother and his father and his sister – in fact, just stay away from the Watson residence, all of you. If anything, you should go back to your fancy little shuttle and ride back to your fancy Capitol and tell any sponsor that will listen to you that Sherlock Holmes wants to see John Watson more than anything, and in order for that to happen they need to help him get out of that Arena and back to District Twelve as soon as possible. Now get out of my sight,” Sherlock ordered in anger, eyes filling with tears, and he slammed back into his own house, just to run out of the back door to meet Harry a few blocks away.

“That was a lot of pent-up aggression,” Mycroft noted from over the phone.

“They shouldn’t have asked me that,” Sherlock replied.

“I can tell.”

“And you said that they  _liked_  that?” Sherlock asked, confused. “I thought I was going to get arrested, honestly.”

“You wouldn’t get arrested – you’re one half of Johnlock,” Mycroft informed him.

“Johnlock?” Sherlock repeated. “What is – oh  _god_ , is that what they’re calling us?”

“Yes, you’ve got quite the cult following, here. Which is good, considering the fact that you’re up against MorMor,” Mycroft informed him.

“Mor – Moran and Moriarty?” Sherlock guessed.

“Yes.”

“I am going to vomit.”

“I know, it’s atrocious. But they liked what you did today, which makes you extremely lucky. The reporter you snapped at has been interviewed by Mr. Flickerman via livestream on the train; she says you got everything right other than the fact that you didn’t mention she has a Pomeranian at home.”

“I knew it was either that or a Chihuahua,” Sherlock said.

“Have you not been watching?” Mycroft asked. “I thought you’d be simply glued to the screen.”

“I’ve been wanting to but there’s been…bigger things going on here,” Sherlock revealed slowly.

“Bigger than John?” Mycroft asked. “What could possibly be – oh, I see. Let me venture a guess: John’s parents didn’t take too well to your declaration, did they?”

“They didn’t,” Sherlock confirmed. “Harry also decided to come out to her parents at the same time; I’m still not sure if that helped or worsened matters.”

“Either way you should be thankful,” Mycroft informed him. “She did a very brave thing for you.”

“Yes, I know she did, and of course I’m thankful for it. I just…” he trailed off, unsure of how to word what he wanted to say.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Mycroft spoke, using the tone of voice he always used when he was about to tell his younger brother something important, or just when Sherlock was in trouble for conducting an experiment on their living room floor.

“Yes?”

“Of course I support you,” Mycroft assured his brother. “I’m surprised you even felt the need to ask me.”

Despite the feeling of appreciation swelling up in Sherlock’s chest, he swallowed it down to speak.

“I was going to warn you the last time you called,” he admitted.

“I realized that as soon as we learned the flower was from you,” Mycroft chuckled. “You have helped John immensely, despite what John’s parents are saying. How exactly are they taking your announcement, by the way? I know you said not well; what are the specifics?”

“Mrs. Watson wants the best for her children, though she’s convinced that Harry’s still young and her sexuality is just a phase. I suppose John and I are exempt from this opinion simply because of our situation.”

“Hm. And his father?”

“He…” Sherlock took a breath. “He thinks that at least one of us is lying about our feelings for one another,” he said. “If John doesn’t...if he doesn’t make it back, his dad wants me to tell everyone that I never loved him and what happened during his interview was just a ploy to get more sponsors.”

“And if he does?” Mycroft asked.

“He wants me to give John a choice about whether or not he meant what he said that night,” Sherlock replied. “If he never meant it I’m supposed to leave him alone or just never act on my feelings or whatever John decides. But if he  _does_  love me Mr. Watson said that he has no control over John, so I suppose we’d be free to live how we like.”

“You sound upset about this,” Mycroft said, after a moment. “I thought you’d be pleased that neither of them are totally opposed to the idea of you and John becoming romantically involved.”

“I am happy, but John’s father brought up something I hadn’t thought of before,” Sherlock said.

“Which is?”

“The Capitol loves us, evident by the fact that they’ve named us and we’ve got fans who undoubtedly support our relationship. I can’t imagine what they would do if they found out it was entirely faked for John to get such support – it’s like we’ve cheated the system with the promise of love. Which means that, in order to stay out of trouble, we’d have to keep pretending for the cameras. Or...or we could stage a break up. Do you think that would work?”

“No, that won’t do,” Mycroft replied. “If he’s with you the Capitol can’t touch him. If John doesn’t love you, he’d have to keep pretending for the cameras, or –”

“Or the Capitol would destroy him,” Sherlock murmured, voice devastated. “I’ve sealed John’s fate, Mycroft.”

“I don’t think you have, though. At least, not the way you’re implying you have. You know John better than anyone: what attributes can you normally assign to him without hesitation?”

“Kindness. Loyalty,” Sherlock replied immediately. “He’s – he’s always the heart of everything. I’m the brains – he’s the heart.”

“So with that evidence, what might you conclude?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock stayed silent, terrified of saying it out loud – terrified of getting his hopes up – terrified of being wrong – “I do believe that you have nothing to worry about,” Mycroft assured him.

“And are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m positive,” Mycroft replied. “When am I ever not?”

“Never,” Sherlock said quietly.

“Exactly. I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about, little brother.” There was a moment of dead air, and Sherlock wondered whether or not Mycroft was waiting for Sherlock to hang up on him. Just when he was about to give his brother the courtesy of pleasantries, Mycroft spoke again. “Oh, look. Your message seems to have reached a sponsor,” Mycroft noted casually.

Sherlock returned his attention to the television to find John. He was now accompanied by three presumably friendly tributes, and he was just now waist-deep in a river, retrieving a small metal container marked with a number “12” from a parachute that was tangled in a low-hanging branch. He watched as John sat at the riverbank and opened his gift, finding a bar of soap.

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile.

* * *

Just before dusk, after everyone had privately washed themselves and they all had eaten, John managed to break from the group, claiming he needed to take a walk to take care of “some business” and promising he’d be back before dark.

Greg told him to take his time, but bring his knife and pack just in case, and to start shouting if he got attacked.

John walked in a straight path away from the camp until he could no longer see the other tributes back by the river. When he decided he was far enough away, he sat at the bottom of a nearby tree and curled into a ball with his head resting on his knees.

Now he could think about Sherlock.

What if it was all some sort of ruse – the flower during the interview, the declaration of love – some kind of ploy to give John the most amount of sponsors? No, it couldn’t have been. The iris was far too personal – they were the only ones who knew of the iris field. If it was just for the Games he would’ve sent some sort of far less personal symbol, like a rose, or a daisy, even. Sherlock also would’ve had the courtesy to warn him back in his last moments with John back in District Twelve, wouldn’t he? He had methodically listed as much knowledge about the Games as he could, surely he would’ve managed to slip something in about this; a simple “by the way, I have a plan; you’ll know it when you see it, just follow my lead” would’ve helped. Hell, he would’ve been happy with one word – one word to let him know that Sherlock had something up his sleeve. But Sherlock didn’t mention anything about this at all before he became extremely un-Sherlock-like and sentimental –  _“John Watson, you are brilliant, you are fantastic and – John – You know I try to divorce myself from my feelings, but it’s never been that way with you. And I didn’t know if I was ever going to put this into words but since – since there’s a chance we won’t see each other again I want you to know –”_

John’s breath caught.

 _Jesus Christ,_ he thought – whispered out loud? He couldn’t tell.

It was so obvious, now. Actually, no – it had been obvious the whole damn time, but John was too blind and preoccupied and _so utterly stupid_ to see it –

Sherlock Holmes was in love with him.

“Shit,” John hissed, definitely out loud this time.

He lifted his head from his knees and looked up at the trees and sky above him, reminding him of his current situation, and rubbed at his mouth, settling his hand over his mouth – covering his mouth without letting the cameras know he was covering his mouth. He couldn’t be saying shit out loud – the Capitol might think he’s thinking about Victor Trevor, but if this moment of quiet makes it into the broadcast, and if Sherlock was watching – Christ, Sherlock _would_ be watching – he’d probably know that these particular spoken words weren’t about Victor Trevor at all.

But he had to think about this – _really_ think about this. Because Sherlock really loved him _goddamnit._

Sherlock was his best friend, and he always had been since the day they spoke to each other after Mycroft was reaped into the Arena. They were certainly great for each other – John helped Sherlock cope with almost losing his brother to the Games and his Morphling addiction, and Sherlock helped John with his homework and taught him to see the world in an entirely different light. In fact, they had joked when they were younger Sherlock was the brain to John’s heart, and vice versa, because (according to Sherlock) Sherlock didn’t love, and John didn’t think. But Sherlock seemed perfectly capable of loving him _shit shit shit –_

Sherlock and John had always been inseparable; in fact, the only thing that was able to tear them apart was the Hunger Games. It was always Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Never one without the other. Their closeness started to become a topic of discussion when they were about thirteen and fourteen, and rumors of just how close they really were floated through the halls of their school. Long story short, Philip wasn’t the first person to call John a “fag,” and there had been more than one occasion where John had to save Sherlock from being cornered after school. But, throughout all of that, Sherlock never gave a damn about what they said or did or assumed, and after a while, neither did John.

Maybe Sherlock didn’t care about what they thought simply because he _wanted_ the rumors to be true. If that assumption was correct, what did that say about _John?_ Was it possible to subconsciously have a crush on someone? It probably was – that’s how crushes developed, after all – first it’s subconscious, and then it’s so blaringly there and in your face that you want to crawl under a rock and die and walk up to them and ask them out simultaneously. John knew this feeling well – he had it every time he realized he liked the various girls in his class, which brought John to his next question: exactly how _long_ was Sherlock crushing on John anyway? How _long_ did Sherlock feel like this every waking minute of every single day? And Sherlock barely slept – how long did he fight with those feelings in the middle of the night while everyone else in the world was asleep?

Those were questions he had to ask when Sherlock in person, if and when he was given the opportunity. But for now he had to focus on the most important, ever-pressing question: did _he_ have a crush on _Sherlock?_

That was a difficult question to answer. It was true that John admired Sherlock’s intelligence and opinions of the world and basically how his mind worked in general, but could he have just been admiring  _Sherlock_  as a whole this entire time? Maybe he was – he was able to admire Sherlock’s eyes in just an idle passing thought, after all...

And what about the interview, when John all but shouted his love for Sherlock in front of thousands of people – in front of the entire nation? In that moment, John was teetering between saying it for the sponsors and saying it for Sherlock, but was he saying it for himself, too?

_“Yes! Sherlock, I –”_

It was so quick – _so_ jostled out of him – _so_ unplanned –

Sure, he hauled himself up short and announced it formally for the cameras, but that first moment, where his heart shoved the words out of his mouth before his brain could formally make a decision – that wasn’t just to gain sponsors, and it wasn’t just to make Sherlock happy. That was real.

Maybe he could love Sherlock, even if the thought of becoming his boyfriend was so unexpected and never crossed his mind before the Hunger Games. Maybe he would be happier with him – happier than he was with any girl he had been with before.

John sighed, frustrated. Love never started with “maybe I could” or “maybe I would”; even he knew that. Love wasn’t logical. In fact, he could hear Sherlock speaking in his head, saying something that he had told John at some point when puberty kicked in and he started falling for every girl who looked at him: _“John, I hate to break it to you, but what people call love is just a chemical reaction that compels animals to breed.”_

John scoffed. Two boys couldn’t reproduce – so what the hell did he call this?

_“A flaw in my design.”_

John’s chest suddenly seized with sorrow. Sherlock had never said those words in that order to him, and especially not with as much sadness as John just gave the voice in his head. But why? Sherlock had no problem with people being gay – he was the one who randomly and nonchalantly told John that Harry liked girls – so why did John make Sherlock so sad in his head? Why would Sherlock consider liking a boy – liking _John_ – to be a flaw?

Oh, that was it: not because of liking a boy, but because he liked John – the boy who always ran to Sherlock with his girl drama. The boy who was only ever straight.

He sighed, returning his head to his knees. He at least knew that Sherlock loved him, now – at least that wasn’t bugging him at the back of his mind. But what about his own feelings?

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly. He didn’t know he didn’t know _he didn’t know –_

Maybe he didn’t have to know – at least, not right now. He was in the Hunger Games Arena, after all – he had about fifteen million other things on his mind. Maybe the best thing he could do is to wait the real answers out. All he had to was somehow make it through the Games, and sort this out in his own head once his life was no longer in danger.

As long as he survived the careers.

 _“The careers were trained for the Games – this is what they do,”_ a young Mycroft said in the back of John’s mind. _“But I’ve found that love is also a vicious motivator.”_

Maybe surviving the Games alone would answer John’s question, then. Maybe his love for Sherlock – unbeknownst to him or not – would motivate him to survive.

And until he either came out of the Arena alive or died within it, he would have to fake it for the cameras. If he died, then at least Sherlock would think that it was real, which is what John had wanted anyway, right? For Sherlock to at least think he loved him if he died before he could figure it out for himself?

But John forgot one important detail: Sherlock was smart – way too smart for his own good. He’d know that John was faking it.

But would he, really?

John thought back to all of his crushes – all of the girls who gave him the time of day – how did he feel when they talked to him? How did he feel when they showed even a slight interest? The answer was obvious, thinking back: he was always so blinded by bliss that they were actually talking to him that, really, he couldn’t tell if they were actually interested or not; he was just happy that they were there, talking to him, saying either nice things or simple things like “hey, John do you have a pencil I could borrow?”. But these were just regular run-of-the-mill crushes.

He thought back to Sherlock – Sherlock love-is-a-chemical-reaction Holmes – Sherlock, who had enough of a crush on John to announce it in front of the entire nation with a flower. That wasn’t something someone with just an average crush would do, absolutely not. Sherlock loved John, and he had for quite some time, too.

And if the way Sherlock experienced crushes was anything like the way John experiences crushes, Sherlock wouldn’t even take the energy to try and deduce if John was lying, because _John was returning his feelings._

With one last long, deep sigh, John finally picked his head up and looked around in the dimming light for any sort of camera. He stood up and looked in all the knobs of each tree around him until he found one, and he spoke.

“I’ll be home as soon as I can,” he whispered to the camera, making the promise to his family as well as Sherlock. “And Sherlock…I love you,” he said, smiling, taking note of the fact that the words seemed to go pretty well together, and headed back to Greg and the others.

He arrived back at camp just as night had fallen, and the group was all sitting on a tarp on the ground from their pack.

“You doing alright, John?” Greg asked. “We were getting worried.”

“I’m fine – great,” John replied as he joined them on the ground. “Thanks.”

Greg then looked at Philip expectantly. Philip glanced up at John, and then looked back at Greg. Greg gave Philip a significant look, not-so-subtly gesturing to John.

“Um –” John started, unsure of what to say.

“Philip had something he wanted to say to you, John. Isn’t that right, Philip?” he looked at Philip again.

Philip scowled at Greg for a moment, embarrassed, and finally met John’s eyes.

“Hey, I…I’m sorry about saying…what I said. And, um, thanks for the soap,” Philip forced out, after a moment.

“Uh, thanks,” John replied, surprised and touched that Greg had made him do that. “It’s fine, really.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Sally added. “And yeah, sharing the soap was nice of you, thanks.”

John nodded in acknowledgement, but before he could speak, the Anthem sounded from the skies.

The four tributes looked up, and saw the Capitol’s seal above them.

“It’s Moran – it has to be Moran,” Greg said.

“Who’d kill him? He’s massive,” John said.

“Who do  _you_  think, then?” Sally asked.

“I don’t know. Just not one of the careers,” John replied, and he learned he was right, as the face of a girl from District Three, Jennifer Wilson, flashed on the screen. “Jesus,” John murmured as he learned that the girl was only thirteen years old. He hoped she didn’t die too painfully.

“Jennifer Wilson,” Greg said, saluting the night sky with three fingers of his left hand, and Sally and Philip followed suit, murmuring her name as they did. Philip sounded terrified.

“Is that –?” John asked, and Greg nodded. It was the same sign that Sherlock had given John when John was reaped, just simplified into a salute. A sign of respect to the fallen tribute. John looked up at the sky and saluted Jennifer’s face, just like the others had. “Jennifer Wilson,” he murmured.

Once the Anthem ended, the group slept in something of a dog pile on the tarp, using their packs as pillows. Just as John was about to fall asleep, Greg spoke to him.

“You know what the victors say, John,” he said, nothing but a voice in the night.

“What do they say?” John asked.

“It gets easier.”


	17. For Her

_“I’ll be home as soon as I can. And Sherlock…I love you.”_

Sherlock’s heart and stomach both did another somersault within his torso, as they had been doing each and every time he thought back to that moment, back to those words. The words were so sincere – John’s smile at the camera was so genuine – it brought a smile to Sherlock’s face every time he thought about it.

And really, it was the only thing Sherlock could think of as – it was all he thought about as he fell asleep that night, and it was his first thought when he woke up the next morning. He even ate breakfast for the first time since the morning after Harry broke up with Clara. Once he was done, he even felt enough faith in humanity to leave his home and run a few errands on his own. Despite his unusually delighted demeanor, even taking the time to thank the people at the counter in each shop, everyone left him be, and he was thankful for that.

He walked home alone, and just when he began to think of her, he turned the corner and found Harry Watson sitting on his front porch, wearing a yellow summer dress, waiting for him.

“Hey!” she exclaimed when he approached the gate and ran to meet him, opening the gate for him. “Someone seems happy.”

“I didn’t think I’d see you here again,” Sherlock remarked as they walked down the path to Sherlock’s front door, deflecting her observation as he felt the skin on his cheeks warm.

“Nah, my parents think that if I hang out with you enough I’ll fall in love with you or something stupid like that,” Harry replied with a shrug as she opened Sherlock’s front door for him and closed them inside.

“Seriously? Do they realize how terrible that would be if you did?” Sherlock asked as he walked into the kitchen and put his two bags down. “Not only because the only person I’ve ever loved is your brother but because I’m an insufferable asshole?”

“So you finally admit it,” Harry said, smirking as she helped Sherlock put his groceries away.

“How did they take John’s announcement last night?” Sherlock asked, unable to keep it himself from thinking about it for another second.

“They still think it’s faked to get sponsors,” Harry said, rolling her eyes.

This lowered Sherlock’s mood considerably, but he changed the subject away from the announcement to preserve the moment in his head.

“Let me guess: the dress is to increase your femininity and that will somehow make you more attracted to men,” he deduced.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But they’ll get over it,” she added when Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They’ll get over you and John, too.”

“I know, just not soon enough.”

“Did my dad tell you you’re still allowed over?” she asked as they finished putting Sherlock’s food away. “Mom wanted me to make sure you knew.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied as he returned the bags to inside one of the kitchen drawers. He turned around, and they looked at each other for a moment.

“So…do you want to come over for the broadcast?” Harry asked, rocking back and forth on her feet.

“Tell me you’re not serious.”

“Please? For me,” Harry begged.

“Why should I?”

“They just want to know that you don’t hate them. We both know they’ll come around, so you shouldn’t be angry with them. And  _I_  know you don’t hate them.” She paused, and continued when she decided Sherlock wasn’t going to say anything. “Look, tomorrow I’ll come over and we can watch the broadcast together, here. But today I really need you to do this for me.”

“‘For  _me’_  – you keep saying that; why?” Sherlock asked, and as Harry looked away from him, he understood. “You’d feel more comfortable if I was there.”

“Well…yeah,” Harry admitted, looking up at him.

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought. How bad could it be, really?

“Alright, fine.”

* * *

Immediately after John, Greg, Sally, and Philip all awoke and packed up the tarp the next morning, they were on the move again.

“I’m surprised we haven’t run into the careers yet,” Sally said, and Greg nodded in agreement.

“Shut up! You’ll jinx us,” Philip hissed.

“She’s right, though,” John said. “For a group that’s got people like Moriarty and Moran they’ve been awfully –”  _BOOM._ Suddenly, John was interrupted by the sound of a cannon bursting, erupting over the Arena and causing all four children to jump. “– quiet,” he breathed.

“Run!” Philip whispered loudly, half-dragging Sally on ahead, Greg following behind.

“Wait, wait!” John called quietly to him, and Philip spun around.

 _“What,_  John?!” Philip asked, teeth clenched, and John closed the distance between them.

“One of us needs to climb a tree – see where the Hovercraft is,” he whispered his suggestion. “So we don’t run right into them, you know?”

“Okay,” Greg agreed, and Philip quickly nodded as Sally, the lightest and most agile out of all of them, began to scale the nearest tree to search for the metal cloud that was the Capitol Hovercraft. After a few moments of the boys waiting anxiously, she climbed back down.

“It’s about a mile that way,” she decided, pointing in the direction Philip tried running them in.

“That close?!” Philip asked, voice hysterical.

“Did you see any careers?” Greg asked, and Sally shook her head.

“Oh my god we’re going to die,” Philip cried, running his hands through his hair.

“We’re not going to die –” John tried to assure him.

“But this is the Hunger Games –” Philip reminded him, but John grabbed his shoulders and caused the terrified thirteen year old to look up at him.

“Nobody’s going to die, Philip – not today,” John assured him, and let go of him. “Let’s just go this way, and we’ll be fine,” he said, pointing them in the opposite direction. “We’ll be fine –” he said, and looked at Philip, Sally, and Greg. “Greg?” He asked upon seeing him, for he was looking off into the distance.

“Everybody shut up for a second,” Greg ordered, and everyone looked at him. “Listen.”

They all stood still, and in the silence John heard the snapping of twigs, coming from the direction of where the Hovercraft reportedly was. Someone was coming, and fast.

“Oh, god,” John whispered as Philip spun around to face him.

“You said! You  _said –”_  he cried out in betrayal, but as if Sherlock Holmes had let John borrow his brilliant, brilliant mind for the moment, John was thinking of a plan.

“We’re gonna stand our ground,” John decided, and the three kids protested.

“No way!”

“What?!”

“Are you  _crazy?!”_

“Just listen to me! They’re running; we’re not. When they get here they’re going to be pretty tired – they just ran a mile to get here, according to you, Sally. It’s four against one; we’ve got the advantage. If we give a chase and they catch one of us? I don’t think any of us went running just for the fun of it back at home; we’re gonna be fucking tired and then we’re going to have to fight – they’re going to kill whoever they catch and I  _said_  no one’s going to die today. Get your weapons out  _now_  – we’re standing our ground.”

Despite how crazy they must have thought John was, they didn’t object, and so they all stood, back to back, waiting.

John stared out into the trees, searching for any kind of movement, and the only thought to cross his mind was a silent plea:

_Not Moriarty._

* * *

Sherlock knew that John was doing the best thing he could do in a situation like this, and he was proud of him for thinking so quickly. He also knew that it was simply Molly Hooper who was running in John’s direction. Despite knowing these things, Sherlock was still nervous as he watched the small screen at the Watson’s house split into three different views before him: on his left, John and three other tributes he had aligned with standing back-to-back, waiting for Molly Hooper to arrive; on his right he could watch Molly as she ran through the forest with nothing but a stick to arm herself with; above both screens was the blueprint of the Arena, and the number eight closing in on the two number tens, the six, and the twelve.

She burst into the clearing and nearly ran straight into Anderson’s spear. She cried out and quickly dropped her branch to cover her mouth. She looked at the group, eyes pleading.

“They’re coming – if you’re going to kill me do it quickly, please –” she begged, but Sherlock could tell John’s defense was lowered as soon as he saw that it was just a frightened twelve-year-old girl.

“No,” he said, and turned to Sally. “Sally, get up back up in that tree – get as high as you can and keep yourself unseen. Greg, you too – pick a tree you can climb.” With a nod, they were both off and climbing the trees.

“What about us –” Anderson asked.

“Come on,” John said, and got down on one knee before a different tree, putting his hands together for Anderson to use as a stair. John heaved the boy up to grab a high branch on a nearby tree. Once Anderson was on said branch and he was beginning to climb, John turned to Molly to do the same thing. As each child settled in a tree, a new screen was made for Panem to watch each of the hiding tributes. Once Molly was away and hidden, John quietly called up to the group.

“Don’t move from this spot no matter what, got it? That goes for all of you,” he ordered as he slung off his pack and taking one of his knives, and the cameras cut away from the four tributes in the trees to a career by the name of Jeff Hope, as he approached the place where John and the others were.

It was then Sherlock understood what John was doing.

“Oh, no,” he whispered.

“What is it?” Harry asked.

“No – no, he can’t –” Sherlock went on, voice desperate.

“Sherlock, what is John doing?” Mrs. Watson asked.

“He’s going to be the bait.”

John looked down from the trees where his friends were hiding and caught sight of Jeff Hope racing toward him, and John ran.

Jeff Hope was a career that Sherlock could only describe as big and clumsy, but then again that might have only been because of the company he kept. Out of all of the careers, he seemed incredibly out of place among them – and he was. As everyone knew, Moriarty and Moran were in a highly physical relationship, every time the cameras cut to them both they were snogging or had just fornicated; Irene Adler and Kate Halstead had also been seen kissing. Sherlock could tell that both relationships were strictly casual, but that didn’t mean they didn’t have a cult following. Hope, though, was also the physically weakest career, and was terrible when it came to using weapons in a fight. He preferred to poison his victims’ food – that’s how Jennifer Wilson died the day before.

“This’ll be an easy kill,” Sherlock murmured.

“What?” Mr. Watson asked, angry and anxious.

“For John. Hope’s terrible at combat,” Sherlock explained quickly, and returned his full attention back to the chase, where Hope was gaining.

John glanced back to see how close Jeff Hope was, and looked back just in time to duck under a branch.

Sherlock knew that John could out-run him – he and John had run farther beyond the fence than what John was running just now. As long as the stress of the situation didn’t get to his head he would be fine.

John ran until he reached an overhang – a cliff the Capitol made out of the land. John turned around and glanced around, searching. He was far ahead of Hope, and when John saw that, he jumped down and hid under the overhang, pressing himself into the dirt.

“There you go,” Sherlock whispered.

A few moments later, Jeff Hope caught up with John, and looked over the cliff to see if he could find John running. John held his breath, keeping completely still.

“Oh he’s so close! Is this the end of John Watson, and by extension, Johnlock?” Caesar Flickerman narrated, as he did every now and then, as John closed his eyes.

“No,” Sherlock whispered through gritted teeth, and kept his eyes glued to Jeff Hope.

He looked around, searching for movement, searching for John, and then, apparently finding nothing, scowled at the landscape, and waved it off.

“…Fuck it,” he decided, and walked away.

It was only then Sherlock was able to breathe easily.

* * *

Once John was confident the career was gone, he peeked up over the edge of the overhang. Finding nothing, he then decided it was safe to climb back over and run back to Greg and the others. When he got there, he spent only a moment searching the trees before Philip’s spear landed by John’s feet. John looked up, and Philip grinned.

“Gotcha.”

“There you are,” John replied, grinning back, and Greg landed behind him with a thud and hugging John as he turned around.

“We almost thought you weren’t coming back!” he exclaimed, and then quickly letting him go. Shaking the hair out of his face, Greg then spoke in the general direction of where he thought a camera could be, raising his hands as if he was being arrested. “If you’re watching this; sorry, Sherlock.”

In a moment of gleeful victory, John blew a kiss to the direction of whatever camera Greg was talking to, to Sherlock, and Philip rolled his eyes as he and Sally both climbed down from their trees.

John walked up to Molly’s tree and looked up to find that she hadn’t moved, still hugging the tree’s trunk from the branch she was sat upon.

“Hullo,” he called up to her.

“…Hi,” she replied quietly.

“Are you going to come down?” Greg asked as he joined them, standing beside John, with Sally and Philip following behind.

“Um…no, I think I’ll stay up here, thank you,” she said.

“It’s Hooper, right? From District Eight?” Greg asked, and the girl nodded.

“You can come down, Molly; we won’t hurt you,” John promised.

“Yeah – we just saved your life; if we were planning on killing you we would’ve just thrown you to that career,” Greg nodded, and it was then Molly decided to slowly make her way down to the others.

Only when she reached the ground was John able to get a good look at her. The girl was a mess. She was covered in scratches from thorns, her knees were dirtied from the many times she had tripped and fallen, and some of her hair had fallen out of the ponytail the Capitol had her wear.

John looked around at Greg, Sally, and Philip and found that, despite the presence of John’s soap, though they didn’t look as bad as Molly Hooper, they still looked pretty bad. They all needed a new set of clothes and a good shower or at least a real bath, but John knew that there was a good chance none of them would ever get that luxury again.

He wondered how bad he looked.

Greg was the first one to speak.

“We’ve got food, if you’re hungry,” he offered.

“And I’ve got soap,” John added.

Molly looked at them skeptically, but then began to nod.

“I – I’d like that, thank you,” she said.

And so, the five children went back and found the river, and John let Molly wash herself with his soap. When she joined them again Greg fished some crackers out of his pack and gave them to her.

“What about you?” she asked.

“We’ll manage,” Greg replied, winking at her, and it was only then did Molly eat. As she ate, once she was feeling slightly more comfortable around the group, Greg turned to John and asked for a word in private. John agreed, and they walked about twenty feet from the group to talk. Greg glanced back at Molly.

“She’s got  _nothing,”_  he noted, astounded.

“She must have just ran straight from the Cornucopia…” John thought aloud. “Jesus.”

“Imagine living like that – she’s only twelve.”

“We really lucked out,” John said, and Greg nodded in agreement.

“We have to help her.”

“We are helping her – we let her wash herself and we’re giving her some food –” John said, but Greg cut him off.

“No, I mean if she doesn’t want to stay with us,” he said. “Look, we’ve all got weapons, but you’re the only one here that has…” He shrugged, searching for the word. “...multiple weapons, you know?”

Suddenly, the knife John had felt incredibly heavy in his pocket.

“Oh.”

“It’s just one knife,” Greg begged. “You’ve got four more just like it. Come on, for her. Imagine if it was you.”

John put himself in the place of Molly Hooper for just a moment. She was alone and defenseless, and she was just  _twelve years old;_  John couldn’t even begin to imagine how terrified she was. If he was her, he’d give anything for just one knife – and the kindness of others.

“Okay,” John replied, and passed his knife to Greg.

Once Molly finished eating, Greg gave her the choice of leaving the group or staying with them. After a moment of thought, she replied.

“I would love to, but I can’t. You’ve seen what happens to the careers, haven’t you? They – they make this big alliance and then when it gets down to the end they turn on each other. You all have been so kind – I couldn’t make you kill me,” Molly said.

“We’re not the careers, though –” Greg started, but John cut him off.

“No, but she’s right. If we end up somehow outliving the careers, we’d have no choice other than to kill each other.”

“I don’t want to do that, and you guys shouldn’t have to be the ones to kill me after you’ve been so kind,” Molly said, and the others nodded, understanding.

“Well, if you ever need us, come find us,” Greg said. “Whatever you need, we’ll help you.”

“Of course,” Molly agreed. “Thank you,” she said as Greg reached into his pocket.

“And we thought that this would help you much more than a stick,” he said, passing her John’s knife.

Molly stared at it, wide-eyed.

“Are you sure?” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” Greg assured her.

Molly tentatively reached out and took the knife from Greg and thanked him. One by one, they each hugged the little girl and gave her their goodbyes, and they let her leave.

Once she was gone, the four teenagers packed their things and set off again, east. They weren’t sure where they were going, but they needed to keep moving, or the Gamemakers would come after them. They walked in mostly silence, with the occasional comment.

Philip noted the potential time.

Sally noted how they should stop to eat soon.

Greg noted how nice Molly was.

John’s thoughts were elsewhere.

“I wonder how much of that made it onto the broadcast.”


	18. Berries

None of it made it onto the broadcast.

Once the audience knew that John was safe, the broadcast decided to turn its attention to the other tributes. This pissed Sherlock off to no end, but it always pissed Sherlock off when John wasn’t on screen. He watched only by glaring at the screen, mumbling deductions as they came to him.

Henry Knight, a sixteen year old from Molly Hooper’s District, a tribute that only had a single knife to his name, had found a cave and decided it was in his best interest to hide himself there. Soo Lin Yao, the thirteen year old tribute 5, had stuck to the trees during almost her entire time in the Arena. She only touched the ground to gather food and water, which is what she was doing when the Broadcast decided to pay attention to her. Soo Lin had gotten to the mouth of the Cornucopia during the Bloodbath and was able to gather a bow and arrows and a pack of her own (which contained a water canteen among other things). She hadn’t killed anyone, but she didn’t need to. No one had found her up in the trees, yet. Mary Morstan was living fairly easily – she traveled by night and lived in a tree during the day. When the cameras caught up with her, she was enjoying one of the apples she had gotten from the Cornucopia.

Then the cameras cut to the careers.

It seemed Moriarty and Sebastian had just celebrated the murder of Paul Dimmock from District 7 the only way they knew how, apparently, and Irene and Kate were just about to do the same. They were all inside the Cornucopia – Sebastian was taking inventory on weapons, and Moriarty sat next to the stash toying with one of the bigger knives. Kate sat in Irene’s lap closer to the mouth of the horn, kissing passionately. Surprisingly, no one was on guard.

“How many of us are left, again?” Irene asked Moriarty before kissing Kate again.

“Thirteen,” Moran answered, not looking up from what he was doing.

“Hm. It seems less than that,” Irene noted.

“Who’s left?” Kate asked.

“Well, there’s us – that’s five,” Moriarty began. “Districts Eight and Ten are still with us, that’s another four.”

“That’s nine,” Sebastian said.

“Then the girl from Five, the boy from Six –”

“Eleven…” Sebastian counted.

“And those fuckers from District Twelve,” Moriarty finished, stabbing into the crate of fruits beside him and pulling out an apple. He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a switchblade. He carved into the fruit as Irene spoke.

“Oh, Lover Boy’s still with us?”

“Not for long. I can tell you all right now that District Twelve won’t win this year; I won’t let them. Seb’s laid claim on the girl, and I’ve got something special planned for our little John Watson.”

Sherlock bared his teeth at the screen.

“What does that involve?” Irene asked.

“Can’t say. You don’t know when all of Panem is watching us,” Moriarty said, waving to each of the cameras located inside of the Cornucopia in acknowledgement, and then went back to carving. “The only thing I  _can_  say is that the next time Sherlock Holmes will see his Johnny boy again will be when the Capitol sends his mangled body back for burial.”

Sherlock’s nails were digging into his skin so far he wouldn’t be surprised if he was bleeding. His teeth hurt from how hard he had them clenched.

He didn’t know how, but he was going to kill Jim Moriarty.

It was then Kate and Irene stood up, holding hands.

“Sounds nice. We’ll be back later; don’t wait up,” Irene informed the two boys, leading Kate out of the Cornucopia as Moriarty finished his apple and looked up at Moran.

“You know, Seb, we can make Jeff do inventory, and we could go for round two –,” he said, and then stopped, realizing something. “Hey, have you seen Jeff?” he asked Irene, and suddenly Sherlock’s rage came to a screeching halt and turned into paralyzing fear.

“No – I’m sure he’ll turn up, eventually,” Irene said, and then they were gone.

Sherlock’s heart was beating hard in his chest. The cameras needed to go back to John and his group and they needed to go back  _now._

“He’s probably doing that thing he does,” Moran said.

“Hm? Oh, right.” There was a moment of silence, and Moran looked over at Moriarty and caught his dark eyes surveying him.

“Yes?”

“Get over here, Seb. Now,” Moriarty ordered, and Sebastian Moran obliged, walking up to Moriarty and allowing the teenage boy to kiss him.

It was then the cameras cut to the blue map of the Arena, showing everyone’s numbers, as Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith narrated.

John’s family looked at Sherlock, who was still staring wide-eyed at the screen, terrified.

“…Sherlock?” Harry asked quietly.

It took a moment for Sherlock to find his voice.

“I should’ve known –”

“Should’ve known what?” Mrs. Watson asked.

“Jeff Hope is going after John,” Sherlock revealed, not chancing a glance away from the broadcast, in case they showed something.

The Watsons looked back at the screen just in time to see the map close in on the northwestern side of the Arena, where there was a small concentration of numbers: John’s number 12, Donovan and Anderson’s 10’s, Lestrade’s 6, and finally, not too far away, Jeff Hope’s 4.

He had been following the group the whole time, and as soon as they sat down to eat, he would go in for his kill.

* * *

“I’m hungry,” Philip complained.

“Me too. Can we stop for the night?” Sally asked.

“Now? It’s not even sundown,” Greg said. “I’ve still got a bit more in me. What about you, John?”

“Sorry, Greg, but my legs are killing me,” John admitted. “We could rest at the top of that hill; give us the high ground for the night,” he said, pointing to a hill that was a few yards away to their left.

“Good idea,” Greg said.

With that, the gang climbed up the hill, and when they reached the top they set up their tarp and Sally and Philip, sitting on a log, went for their food stash.

“Hey, um, I don’t want to be a dick or anything, but do you think we should keep going and eating all of the food we have in our bags?” John asked.

“What are you talking about?” Sally asked. “We should eat what we have.”

“I was just thinking because, you know, we could run out soon and –”

“No, I get what John’s saying. We should save this stuff for when we need it – maybe when we want to reward ourselves –”

“‘Reward ourselves’?” Philip repeated, scoffing. “We’re living long enough to see our next meal – that should be enough cause for a reward in itself.”

“You know what I mean. If we make it a few more days we won’t have any food from the Cornucopia and we’ll  _have_  to live off the land,” Greg pointed out.

“Then we’ll scrounge around for food then. We’ve been walking all day – I’m exhausted,” Sally argued.

“Yeah, but do you really want to do it when you don’t have a choice?” John asked.

“Whatever; you two can stay here, if you want; John and I will go,” Greg said, and suddenly John regretted saying anything.

Sally rolled her eyes.

“Fine,” she decided, and Greg stood up, taking a jacket out of his bag that was identical to John’s.

“There’s some bushes down there that look like they have some berries. If they’re safe we won’t have to travel too far,” John said, gesturing to the other side of the hill.

“Great find,” Greg said, giving John a hand up off the ground. “Let’s check it out.”

As Donovan and Philip rested (and began kissing, as John imagined, seeing as the two of them were holding hands again), he and Greg went down the hill to the berry bushes.

John picked a berry and inspected it closely as Greg laid the jacket onto the ground.

“It’s a blueberry,” he decided, and passed it to Greg. “Totally safe.”

“You’re sure?” Greg asked, rolling it in his fingers.

“Yes,” John assured him. “Watch,” he said, and took another blueberry from the bush and ate it without batting an eye, proving that it wasn’t a trick.

“Alright, then,” Greg decided, and ate the berry in his hand. “Let’s pick some more.”

The two teenage boys went from bush to bush – John would identify the berries and they would pick from the bushes once they were deemed safe. When they were done with each bush they would place their berries on the inside of the jacket that Greg had laid out on the ground to use as a sack later.

John’s thoughts were barely focused on the task at hand – he was tired, so unbelievably tired. He wanted to go home, but he had to get through the Hunger Games first. He’d only been in the Arena for three days – three  _fucking_  days – but it seemed so much longer. It was probably because of the eight days he has been a part of this whole thing with the cameras and the fucking beauty pageants and training and interviews and all that other drawn-out shit…

Greg was talking to him.

“Hm,” John acknowledged, nodding.

Eleven days. He had been reaped only eleven days ago. How could so much happen in such a short amount of time?

Did the others feel like this? Like time was moving so slowly that an entire lifetime was fit within just eleven short days?

The others – they were all going to die. He was going to die.

 _“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re in the_ Hunger Games Arena; _do-or-die central.”_

_“You’ve seen what happens to the careers, haven’t you? They – they make this big alliance and then when it gets down to the end they turn on each other.”_

Do or die. Kill or be killed.

He was growing attachments to these people, knowing they would die – even fucking Philip, for Christ’s sake! What if he had to kill them in the end? No – there would be no way he could outlive Jim Moriarty and Sebastian –

“You want to talk about it?”

John looked up at Greg, to find that he was eyeing him, concerned.

“…Sorry, what?” he asked.

“I said you’re awfully quiet, John. Do you want to talk about it?” Greg repeated.

“I…I was just thinking about what Molly was saying,” John admitted.

“About?” Greg asked.

“About it coming down to us in the end.”

To John’s surprise, Greg scoffed.

“You really think that’s going to happen?” he asked. “Because if you do I’m really surprised in you, John. Flattered, really.” John stared at Greg, confused and taken aback by his sudden skepticism. He was about to chew him out – how dare he not have any hope in any of them – but then he realized:

“You’ve written yourself off,” John said quietly.

“I’ve come to terms with my passing and I’m okay with it, John,” Greg affirmed, and John couldn’t understand how he was being so casual about it. “Don’t worry; I’m not going to commit suicide. This is different.”

“Does your family know?” John asked. “I mean, now they do, obviously, but…”

“Oh, yeah. When I was reaped I told my parents I wasn’t coming back. I told all of my siblings – I looked into my five-year-old sister’s eyes and told her that her big brother Greg loved her but wasn’t coming home…and I don’t even think she understood why. I told the best friend that I used to play football with when we were little and the girl that I’ve had a crush on for years but watched her as she dated other guys because I never got to pluck up the courage to tell her how I felt that this was the last time they would see me in person.”

“Fuck,” John whispered. “There’s no swaying you, is there?”

“I decided this when I was twelve. I can’t kill a person, John; it’s just not something I can do. So, if I was ever to get reaped into the Games I would just befriend the misfits and the ones who had no chance of living and just wait it out – give them something good in this Arena.”

“…What about me?” John asked, suddenly offended. “You thought I didn’t have a chance, all this time?”

“No, actually. Well, yes – I thought you didn’t when we first met, but I’ve seen what you can do with a knife, John. Of course you can win.”

John stared at Greg for a moment. He had never been this personal with him, until now. Perhaps he was tired, too.

“…Thank you,” John said.

“I mean it, you know. That Sherlock sounds like a great guy, and out of everyone here I want to see you go home to him the most.”

“Sherlock’s more of a total asshole –” John began, but remembered the cameras were probably watching him and broadcasting their conversation live to the public. “But, I do love him, dearly. It’s part of his charm, really. But I do really appreciate that. Thank you, Greg,” he added as they walked back to the pile of berries.

Greg picked up a handful and offered a blueberry to John.

“Want one?”

“Nah, I’ll just wait until we get back to the others,” John replied as he pulled in the sides of the jacket, making a sack for the berries.

“Suit yourself,” Greg replied, putting it into his mouth and scrunching up his face.

“Sour?” John asked, half-smiling.

“Sour.”

The two made their short trip up to the top of the hill and back to Sally and Philip, who were indeed kissing by the time they arrived.

“We’re back,” Greg announced loudly, breaking them apart. They looked embarrassed for a moment as they pushed themselves away from each other in surprise, but returned back to normal when Greg made nothing of it. “And we’ve got a shit ton of berries, but they won’t last too long so dig right in,” he said as John put down the jacket and taking a handful for himself.

“Awesome,” Sally said as she and Philip took a handful.

John took his own handful and began eating.

“There’s so many bugs tonight – it’s annoying,” Philip complained as they all ate.

“Probably because we haven’t made a fire today,” John said, looking at the sky. “We have a bit of time before sundown, though the smoke may attract someone. What do you think, Greg –” He looked over at Greg to find that the color had completely drained from his face. “Whoa, are you okay, Greg?”

“I’m fine, don’t worry,” Greg replied. “Some sort of bug probably bit me up in the trees today.”

“Do you need a sponsor?” Philip asked, panicked.

“Nah, I’ll just sleep it off – I’ll be better in the –” he was cut off by his eyes rolling back into his head and falling forward off of the log he and John were sitting on. Sally called his name as John sprang to his side, rolling him over and checking his vitals.

“He’s having trouble breathing,” John announced, beginning to press on his chest to preform CPR.

Greg Lestrade was dying.


	19. No One's Favor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WALL OF TEXT~  
> Merry Christmas, everyone! (Kinda - I'm not posting on the 26th so this is the best we're gonna get here.) Also, happy holidays to everyone who doesn't celebrate Christmas! I just wanted to take this time to thank everyone who's given me kudos on this fic and has sent me comments and reached out to me over the past year; I'm so thankful for all of you guys and I'm so happy you guys are enjoying this fic so much.  
> I also thought this would be a good time to announce that there WILL be a sequel to Sentiment! Its name will be Constantly, and that's been in the works for about a year now (don't expect it to come out as soon as Sentiment is done posting; I finish my stories before posting them for editing reasons). It's a lot darker, new characters and challenges are introduced, and hopefully you guys will fall in love with it as much as you have fallen for Sentiment. After Constantly is posted, I'm thinking about posting omakes, alternative endings, short stories based on this universe I've been a part of for like THREE YEARS NOW (jfc), and some other behind-the-scenes stuff that I thought you guys would find interesting. So yeah, let me know if you guys would be interested in that sort of thing.  
> I hope you guys enjoy the next two weeks and welcome in the new year just as much as I will be! Also, if you think of it, keep me in your thoughts over this holiday season; my family and I are really hoping for a Christmas miracle this year, and the outlook is looking bleaker and bleaker with each coming day. I'll be back the second of January with the next chapter, so stay tuned!  
> Love, Sara <3

As John pressed on Greg’s chest, the dying boy’s face turned pink, and his entire body began convulsing.

“What the fuck!?” Philip cried, as Sally just watched, shocked.

“Greg – Listen – It’s John – It’s me –” John told Greg as he tried to revive him. “Come on – please –” John begged as tears burned his eyes, but the only response Greg was able to give was spewing his vomit all over himself and John’s forearms and hands. It smelled vile and John felt the need to distance himself and clean himself up, or at least remove his jacket, but he wanted Greg to be alive and well more than anything, right then. “Greg! Come on!” he yelled, tears beginning to stream down his face.

He couldn’t even focus on what Sally and Philip were saying anymore – the only thing that mattered to John right now was keeping Greg’s heart beating. He didn’t even care that Jim Moriarty could be nearby – he continued to shout to Greg as the boy shook under his hands, trying to force the life back into him.

And suddenly, just like that, Greg stopped shaking. He stopped moving all together.

John sat up, wiping the sweat off his face, not even noticing the vomit, now, unsure whether to feel relieved or terrified. He just stared at Greg.

But then the cannon went off.

Greg Lestrade was dead.

Before John had time to react, little Philip Anderson plowed John over and pinned him down on the ground.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!” he shouted.

“Nothing! I did nothing!” John yelled back.

“Oh yeah, SURE – and Greg just  _decided_  he would have a fucking heart attack, right?” Philip removed his hand from John’s arm, and before he could process what was going on, he felt a sharp pain, and a warm liquid spreading on his face.

“Philip!” Sally yelled, trying to pull him off of John.

“No! This faggot killed him!” he shouted.

“I didn’t! I DIDN’T!” John yelled, struggling as Philip punched him again. “STOP!”

It was then Sally was actually successful in separating the two, and John crawled away from them.

“Prove it, then! You think you’re so great with your sponsors and your fucking training score and your gay-ass crush back home, don’t you?! So you go and kill the only person here that actually likes you! You fucking killed Greg!” Philip shouted, his young voice not fitting the words he was saying at all, but rage and fear created them all the same.

“I tried to save him, didn’t I?!” John yelled. “I didn’t see you two dive in to get puked on; I know CPR – I tried to help –” He looked over at Greg’s lifeless body. “Jesus – Jesus Christ –”

“I don’t believe you,” Philip decided, as Sally let go of the boy’s shoulders.

“F-Fine. If you don’t believe me, fucking go – see if I give a shit. But I didn’t kill him – hey!” he yelled as Philip walked back toward his pack and picked up his spear. Once he retrieved his weapon, he doubled back to John, pressing the blade on his shirt.

“Leave!”

John stared at Philip, his brain not comprehending what he was asking.

“What?”

“LEAVE!” Philip shouted, pressing the blade deeper, causing John to wince at the pain. “GET THE FUCK OUT!”

John took a moment to process, but then backed away from Philip as Sally walked up behind her friend and held his shoulders. Once he was out from under Philip’s spear, John stood and put his hands up, palms facing out.

“Okay – okay – but you have to too – they’ll want to take him,” John said, nodding toward Greg’s body. “To take him back to his District.”

“We’ll take care of it when _you’re_ gone,” Philip said.

“Yes, alright, fine. Just…don’t eat those,” John begged, pointing to the pile of berries. “Please. That had to be what killed him. And despite what you may think I don’t want the same happening to either of you.”

He looked at both of the District 10 tributes, searching for…something. Forgiveness, understanding, an apologetic glance, belief in John’s statement – anything. Something that meant that he wasn’t totally hated.

“Fine.”

Sally was the one who spoke. They both held angry glares, but John felt almost elated to know that they weren’t going to poison themselves.

John wasn’t sure what to say or do, so he just ran.

He had no idea how far he ran, but he didn’t stop until he tripped over a root and fell face-first into the dirt.

John Watson hated this god-forsaken place with every fiber of his being.

He tried thinking back to every bush that he and Greg came across that evening – there had to have been something he had overlooked – the leaves or the pigment of the berries or something. He wasn’t bad at distinguishing berries in the training center back at the Captiol – but then again, this was different. Maybe there was a trick of the light – something John didn’t catch when he told Greg he could take the berries from the bushes.

He bet he looked terrible to the Gamemakers and the sponsors. Sure, he loved Sherlock Holmes, but he killed two people  _by accident._  He was in no way giving the Capitol the show they wanted.

It was then the Capitol decided that it was late enough to announce Greg’s demise. As the god-awful song played, John pulled himself up off the ground and looked up into the night, seeing the Capitol’s seal blinking back at him through the trees.

Paul Dimmock, a 14 year old boy from District 7, was shown first. He thought of Greg saluting the sky, saying the name of the passing victim like they had the night before, and John saluted Dimmock, murmuring his name, feeling like it wasn’t nearly enough.

Then Greg Lestrade, fifteen, District 6 was smiling down at him. How could he look so young? His picture was taken only about nine days ago. But then again, how could they have only met up in the Arena yesterday morning?

John did not cry – he was too angry to.

He stared up, empty-eyed at the sky. Greg failed at what he wanted to do – he was not just a name – he wasn’t just some easily forgettable kid. He was John’s friend.

“Greg Lestrade,” John all but whispered, saluting the face in the sky, trying to remember him like that, and not like the convulsing, vomiting, dying boy he tried to save.

When the anthem ended and the lights went out, plunging him back into darkness, John sat at the base of the nearest tree and closed his eyes, the fight in him to hide from the other tributes gone.

Greg Lestrade was dead, and if he was so lucky, he soon would be, too.

* * *

“With Greg Lestrade dead and the Underdog alliance broken, we find that District 6 will  _not_  be the home of this year’s victor,” Caesar Flickerman announced as the careers watched the anthem play. “This leaves 7 possible Districts to take the glory home. But, this raises the question: could the now-fallen Underdog alliance hold the victor of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games? There are twelve tributes left – tune in tomorrow to find out what happens next. Happy Hunger Games, and goodnight!”

“It’s not like we’ve got ourselves a choice,” Sherlock mumbled as the television switched itself off, as it did at the end of every broadcast. He stood up. “Thank you for allowing me over, Mr. and Mrs. Watson,” he said, and they gave him their pleasantries in return. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Harry?” he asked.

“Yeah, of course,” Harry assured him. “Do you want me to walk you home?” she asked, standing and stretching.

“I’d rather go on my own, actually, thanks,” Sherlock declined, making his way to the door. “See you tomorrow.”

“As always,” Harry said, meeting him at the door and opening it for him, allowing him to leave.

Sherlock walked in the warm summer night from John’s house – located halfway between the Seam and the District’s main square – to the Victor’s Village. He remembered when Sherlock lived in the Seam, and John lived right outside of it. Before Mycroft was drawn into the Games, Sherlock lived in the Seam, but John and Sherlock never talked before that day in town. If they had, it was brief, and they never carried a meaningful conversation. Why the hell did the Games have a knack for following him? First they went after his brother, and now his best friend. No one he had known of had ever been cursed with two of their closest relations in the Games, until now – even if they were in two separate years.

For a moment, he entertained the idea of the Games being rigged – he wouldn’t put it past the Capitol to have security cameras in every house and beyond the fence to pick up Sherlock disrespecting the government as he so often did. It would’ve been so easy for one of President Snow’s goons to just write “Mycroft Holmes” on every single slip of paper in that bowl, and come back years later to do the same with “John Watson” – punish the perpetrator by making him live through seeing his closest friends and family get hurt…

Sherlock shook his head – he wasn’t actively planning a rebellion – there was no reason for Snow to attack a nine-year-old boy like that, or even a seventeen-year-old boy. And if Sherlock ever had proof that Snow had done that, he  _would_  get another rebellion on his hands.

When Sherlock arrived to his house in the Village, he noticed a big white box on his doorstep. Upon closer inspection, Sherlock found it was marked with “SHERLOCK HOLMES, DISTRICT 12” in black letters on the top, “[FRAGILE]” on all six sides in red, and it was extremely heavy. Once Sherlock heaved it in and onto his kitchen table, he cut open the box to find smaller boxes, similar to the big box, all neatly packed. On top of the boxes was a small note, written in cursive, in fine, Capitol ink:  _I thought you’d be running out of these. Feel free to destroy them, if you wish; I’ll bring another box whenever I arrive home. Take care of yourself, brother. – M.H._

It was times like this when Sherlock was quite thankful that Mycroft was a victor of the Hunger Games.

He went to sleep after putting away all of the new dishes, and perhaps breaking a few of them in a fashion that no one but him could distinguish as on purpose or by accident. As he rolled onto his side and brought his blankets up to his chin, he couldn’t help but think that there were only twelve tributes still alive in the Arena.

Twelve tributes remained – only twelve. They were halfway there. And one of those twelve would be the victor, and one of those twelve was John.

This thought remained in his mind as he awoke the next morning to the sound of Harry Watson banging on his door.

When he opened the door for her, she strode right in.

“Good morning, my favorite half of Johnlock.”

“Oh, god, don’t call me that,” Sherlock said as he closed the door behind her.

“What, not feeling it?” Harry asked.

“No, I’m feeling it; just not the stupid name the Capitol gave us,” Sherlock assured her, and then noticed her school bag. “You’re sleeping over.”

“Well, yeah. I told you that I’d watch the Games here, today,” she shrugged. “Not to mention you’ve got the gin, and honestly I need a fucking drink if I’m going to watch my brother die.”

This caught Sherlock off guard for a moment.

“Harry, I ran the numbers last night – I looked over my notes and everything – John’s actually got a good chance – better than over half of the people in that Arena,” Sherlock informed her.

It was then Harry’s entire demeanor changed, and she looked Sherlock dead in the eye as she spoke.

“I won’t believe that until Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran are dead and buried.”

Sherlock was taken aback by her sudden glare and the seriousness of her tone for just a moment, and then pointed toward the kitchen.

“I actually restocked just the other day,” he informed her, and she nodded, eyes suddenly exhausted from the weight she carried.

“Perfect.”

* * *

John was surprised he wasn’t dead when he woke up the next morning. After dreams of meeting Greg Lestrade during training and watching him die over and over, he felt like his brain had been scooped out overnight.

He was alive. His mind had to be in there somewhere.

He closed his eyes again and thought of Sherlock. He started out small – just his name. John had seen it enough when Sherlock wrote out his name on his school papers. The curve of his S’s, the way he crossed his H’s and wrote his K’s – it was all coming back to him. He then remembered his face – his dark curly hair and his prominent cheek bones and his pale complexion. He remembered the cupid’s bow in his lips and his eyes that could be shockingly light blue on some days but look hazel or green on others. He remembered his smile – the smiles and the laughs that were saved exclusively for John on days when they explored the woods beyond the fence.

John missed him so much. He hated the life he was living – a life where he had to win the Hunger Games in order to see his face again.

Once he deemed himself ready to go through the day, he got up, put on his jacket, and pulled the hood up over his head – he did not want the world to see him today. With a sip of his canteen, he started walking again, in search of something to satisfy his empty stomach.

* * *

It was a calm day in the Arena, which never proved to be good for the tributes. When Claudius Templesmith announced that the Gamemakers were deciding on an “event” for the remaining tributes, Sherlock needed another swig of gin to ground him, and Harry got another bottle in preparation. It was when Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman were conducting a live interview with Seneca Crane from the Gamemaker’s control room about what the Gamemakers were planning to do that something actually happened.

“As you can see on the map – oh, this is interesting,” Seneca said as he turned to the map and surveyed it. Sherlock’s eyes danced all over the blue screen, trying to figure out what he could have spotted – praying to whatever entity that listened that it wasn’t –

It was.

“John.”

“It looks like the little surprise we have for our tributes is going to have to wait, Claudius; we’ve got a confrontation about to happen,” he announced as the map zoomed into the top region of the Arena, not far from the field that contained the Cornucopia, where John’s number 12 was slowly approaching a number 1 and 2.

“No,” Harry whispered.

“Ooh!” Caesar Flickerman cried out.

“It seems like John Watson from District Twelve is going to walk right by Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran from Districts One and Two. Seneca, could we perhaps stir things up a bit?” Claudius asked.

“NO!” Sherlock shouted. He wanted to get up and pace out his anger, but the thought of John kept him glued to his seat. Frustrated, he took the mug he was drinking out of and hurled it against the wall, splatting its contents onto the floor.

“We can, indeed!” Crane exclaimed. “In fact, I could walk you through the process.”

This happened just about every year. The Head Gamemaker would take an opportunity to show off just how “brilliant” he and his crew were by giving the viewers at home a step-by-step demonstration of how they helped kill a tribute – showing the world how they changed the odds and made them no longer in one’s favor.

Sherlock never imagined seeing this process happen with John in mind.

Sherlock and Harry watched, wide-eyed with fear, as Seneca Crane displayed to the viewers a giant holograph of the Arena.

“Here, you can see that Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran are having a…meeting, of sorts,” he informed Flickerman and Templesmith awkwardly, but Sherlock knew even before then that they were having an intimate moment. “If John Watson gets much closer, he may hear them before they hear him. So, I’m going to ask Moselle here to just place a sort of silencing bubble around these two tributes, so John can’t hear them, but they can hear him. Would you be so kind, Moselle?” he asked, gently placing his hand on the women’s shoulder.

“Of course, Mr. Crane,” she happily obliged, pressing a few buttons and placing the bubble around the two boys.

“No,” Harry whispered, but Sherlock stayed silent, transfixed.

“And now, I’m going to ask Deon, here, to send a slow-moving rabbit into the Arena to cross John Watson’s path and lead him right to the two other tributes,” he went on, placing his other hand on the man sitting next to Moselle. “Deon?”

“I’m on it, Mr. Crane,” he said, and pressing a few more buttons and inserting a small wild hare into the Arena.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be happening.

“Thank you, both,” Seneca thanked them, and then smiled at the camera. “And now, we sit back and watch.”

* * *

John’s stomach growled in desperate agony, the can of beans and the lone energy bar in his bag weighing heavy in his knapsack. He had no idea how much longer he would be in the Arena, and he had to make his luxuries last. Needless to say, he hadn’t so far, and even knowing that he needed to save his food didn’t stop the temptation from being there.

It was midday, from what John could tell, and he had taken off his jacket to take in the sun’s warmth. He was just about to give up and eat his energy bar when he heard movement from his left. John jumped to face the direction of the sound, knife at the ready. He scanned the area, trying to find the maker of the sound before it found him, but while John was still preparing it jumped out of the brush and into the clearing.

It wasn’t a tribute, but a hare.

Relived, John realized that, on any other day, it would’ve just been a rabbit, but today it was John’s dinner.

John poised himself to throw his knife, but it was then the rabbit jumped away and ran past him. Not wasting this opportunity, John chased after it. He followed the animal through bushes and around trees, hoping that its burrow wasn’t nearby. Every time John thought he had lost it, he turned and found the hare again, and continued. The wild goose chase went on for a little while – the rabbit stopping every few meters until John caught up with it, until –

* * *

Sherlock and Harry watched as John chased the hare closer and closer to Moriarty and Moran, astounded and angry that they were merely just  _watching_ as  _their_  John Watson was chasing a hare toward the two strongest careers in the entire Arena.

“I thought they liked him,” Harry muttered, disgusted. “I thought they liked you – both of you.” She looked at him, her eyes filling with tears. “Why are they killing him?”

“They do like him – they like us, but it’s not  _about_  us, Harry,” Sherlock replied, glancing at her. “They just want a show.”

The attention was switched from John being led to the slaughter to Moriarty and Moran, lying on the ground, clearly post-coitus. They were both shirtless but had at least put their pants back on; Moran was lying on his back, Moriarty lying on his side next to him and idly tracing his fingers across Moran's abs and pectoral muscles. Moran watched Moriarty’s face as he did this – wearing the constant glare he always had, yet it was somewhat softened for this moment.

“You know, Seb, I ought to thank that girl from Twelve,” Moriarty informed him conversationally.

“For what?” Moran asked skeptically, scowling.

“For giving you this – it makes you look even sexier,” Moriarty informed him, tracing his finger over the scar on Moran’s face that Mary gave him in the Cornucopia. Moriarty leaned in to kiss him again, and Sherlock’s stomach churned.

After a few moments of just watching them make out and John follow the rabbit closer and closer, John stepped on a particularly loud branch, which snapped Moriarty back to the situation at hand, as if he had forgotten – the fact that he was a tribute in the Hunger Games. He pulled himself away from Moran, and Sherlock grit his teeth.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“What was it?” Moriarty asked, suspicious.

“I think it was just an animal or somethin’,” Moran assured him with a shrug, but this did not soothe him.

“Well,  _I_  think it was a –”

* * *

“– LITTLE BITCH!”

Before John could process who had suddenly spoken, or why he hadn’t heard them until now, or even anything at all, Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran burst through the bushes and ran toward John, shirtless and whooping with the excitement of their next kill, weapons in hand.

John Watson ran.


	20. I Owe You

In moments, Sherlock and Harry were screaming at the television screen, begging for John to out-sprint Moran and Moriarty, washing out the sound of Moriarty and Moran calling after John.

Sherlock’s hatred boiled over for both of them; this was just a game to them – for all of them – not a matter of life and death. The only reason for thinking the way they were was because they knew that they would win – they were more than confident in their ability to win, and that alone made Sherlock more than angry with them.

Sherlock wanted them dead. He wanted them to die – painfully. He wanted them to writhe from the agony of death and to beg for mercy from whoever had the opportunity to murder them. He wanted them to die just because they decided to be the ones who would kill John Watson, and he wanted John to be the one to kill them. In that moment, the emotional turmoil John would suffer meant little to Sherlock – it wasn’t like John wouldn’t feel a tremendous amount of survivor’s guilt if he won without being the one who killed them, anyway. He could help with John’s inevitable post-traumatic stress, as long as he was alive enough for it to be dealt with.

But for now, Sebastian Moran and Jim Moriarty were chasing John Watson through the Hunger Games Arena, and they were gaining.

* * *

“Where you going, Johnny boy?!”

John sprinted through the forest, ducking under branches and jumping over logs and roots and dodging around trees and running through bushes, all with the hope of getting the two careers off of his back. He ran in some sort of a zig-zag pattern in his efforts, trying to lose them, but he knew they were still following him as he approached the river. It rushed before him, much stronger than it was a few days ago – definitely controlled by the Gamemakers. John stood for a moment, his mind desperately reeling for method of escape, but he could hear the two boys gaining.

 “Nowhere to hide!”

Cursing, knowing there was no other choice, he held his breath, and dived in.

The current took John’s body with it, forcing him under and pushing him around in the cold water. He felt his shirt rise up to his collarbones and his bag try to separate itself from him. Keeping a tight grip on the knife on his hand and trying to keep his lungs full of oxygen, he tried to find his way to the surface, all the while being pulled downstream.

He opened his eyes and tried to find light, but it was no use, he was being turned around too much.

It wouldn’t be so bad to die here, right? It was better than being pulverized beyond recognition by his two pursuers…

It was then he felt a sharp pain on his arm as he was rammed into a rock, and suddenly John’s hands were empty. He wrapped his body around the rock – there had to be a top to it. John opened his eyes again, looked up, seeing nothing, and climbed.

* * *

The Capitol was searching above ground to find John, informing the viewers at home that they were preparing the cannon for when John’s tracker could no longer read his heartbeat.

“NO!” Harry screamed, and Sherlock had to hold her as she cried for her brother. He watched the screen for any sign of life, until –

“There he is!” Caesar announced as John’s head broke through the surface, and he gasped for air.

There were no words in the cries that Sherlock and Harry let out as their fear subsided but also doubled in intensity – John was alive, but he was not out of the water, and he was still being pursued.

They watched in desperation as John found his footing on top of the rock and found that he wasn’t far from the shore. He jumped again, and landed a few feet from shore, but was able to grab a branch and pull himself up onto dry land before the current took him again.

When John finally reached the shore, he did not celebrate, but instead spun around to discover that Moriarty and Moran had just spotted him from across the river, and John scrambled up onto two feet and took off again.

“John got out of the rapids alive, but let’s see if Jim and Sebastian decide to leave with their lives…” Claudius addressed the audience, but the posed question was quickly answered when Moriarty and Moran both dived into the water after John. 

* * *

John tore through the woods, knowing he didn’t have much time to evade Moriarty and Moran. Hoping that they were having as much difficulty swimming through the river as he did, John put as much distance as he could between him and them, and when he felt like he had run enough, he took to the nearest tree, and began to climb.

John was no good at climbing, and he knew that from trying to climb trees beyond the fence with Sherlock. Sherlock could scale a tree in under a minute while John awkwardly climbed after him, oftentimes getting stuck and unable to progress. It was easily explainable; Sherlock was smart and tall and agile and John was heavy and clumsy in the trees and almost an entire foot shorter than him and had a mind that was unlike his friend’s. When they were younger, Sherlock would reach the top of the tree while John was still struggling on the lower limbs, but when they were older, however, Sherlock would stop every few limbs, waiting for John to catch up to him, encouraging him to follow his actions so he wouldn’t get stuck.

 _“Jooooooohn, where aaaaare yooouuuu?”_  Jim Moriarty sang, breaking him from his thoughts, and John’s blood ran cold as he launched himself to reach the next branch. Once he put both feet onto the branch, it snapped under his weight, and it wavered but it did not fall. The sound seemed to echo around him, giving his location away.

“This way,” Moran informed Moriarty as John climbed faster, trying to reach the top of the tree.

Just as John reached the top, he looked down and found the two careers had entered the clearing below. John knew he was in plain sight, but he held his breath anyway, praying they would just overlook the area and keep running after him in a direction that brought them far, far away from him. But this was the Hunger Games, and the odds were certainly not in John’s favor. They looked up, and sick smiles spread across their faces, draining all the color from John’s face in a matter of moments.

“Found you, Lover Boy!” Moriarty called up to him.

"Yes, hullo,” John replied nervously, still trying to position himself at the top of the tree and pull another knife out of his bag at the same time.

“How about you come down here?” Moriarty asked, winking up at him.

“Um, no thanks,” John declined, retrieving the knife and putting on his knapsack again.

“Awww come on, Johnny boy! We just wanna  _play!”_  he begged, and suddenly John couldn’t breathe. Suddenly, he was violently flashing back to the Bloodbath, just after he had killed Victor Trevor – looking up and seeing Irene Alder and that god-awful smirk of hers – the crack of her whip –

_“Hey, Lover Boy! Want to play?”_

John tried to keep his cool.

“Well – Well, I’m not in the mood to – to play, sorry to disappoint –” he began, but it was then Moriarty cut him off with one of the only words that he couldn't help but associate with Sherlock Holmes:

_“BORING!”_

* * *

Sherlock stared at the television screen, taken aback by Moriarty’s words. When they were younger, Sherlock would continuously complain to John that everything was boring – school, homework, chores, even the act of  _breathing_  was boring to Sherlock. Younger still, he complained to his mother and Mycroft that even the Hunger Games bored him – it only stopped being boring for him when his own brother was put into the Games, and even then it wasn’t even exciting but instead extremely terrifying. Even so, the ritual they went through every year once they turned twelve years old of fearing for their lives and watching others get shipped off to die was dull and so incredibly stupid to Sherlock’s brilliant mind – the whole thing was. But that’s how it was; that was the outcome of revolution.

Even so, John was the antidote to Sherlock’s boredom – he always had been. But John wasn’t just a source of entertainment, not like he was for the Capitol, now. John saw Sherlock as a person, just like he had all those years ago when the Capitol was looking to Mycroft for entertainment.

Perhaps that was why it bothered – not bothered as much as scared – Sherlock so much. He and Moriarty were probably the only people in all of Panem who could find the Hunger Games boring, which made Moriarty more relatable in ways Sherlock did not want to realize. Sherlock had always imagined what he would be like in the event that he got reaped into the Hunger Games, but he never thought of this: that his boredom could turn him into the monster that Jim Moriarty so obviously was. Could it possibly do that to him?

Sherlock gritted his teeth together, trying to convince himself that he’d never have to find out as Moriarty continued to speak to John.

* * *

“Come on, now, Johnny boy!” Moriarty called up. “We promise we won't kill you  _toooooo_  painfully,” he sang.

It was then it seemed John’s adrenaline shifted gears because John could flee no more, and before he knew what he was doing, the knife he had just retrieved from his knapsack had left his hand and was whizzing down toward Jim Moriarty’s face.

Unfortunately, Moriarty side-stepped out of the way with a surprisingly cool expression for someone who had just almost been murdered, and looked back up at John, smiling cruelly.

“Nice try,” he taunted, and went to pick up the knife. “But you can’t kill me that easily, Watson,” he went on in a tone that was quite unlike the playful demeanor he had kept up until this moment – it was absolutely murderous now, and John suddenly felt incredibly sick. Moriarty grabbed the knife, sticking up from in the ground, and toyed with it for a moment. “Is this really all you have?” he asked, but John was too paralyzed with fear to respond. “Pity,” he said, passing it to Sebastian.

Sebastian Moran, who hadn’t spoken a word to John at all during the Hunger Games – not even in the Capitol – took the knife from Moriarty, and, after surveying it for only a moment, took it in both hands and bent the blade in half until the tip touched the hilt of the knife, rendering it useless.

It was then John decided he wasn’t going to throw any more knives at either of them.

Moriarty looked up at Sebastian as he tossed the broken knife to the ground.

“Seb, could you be a big, strong man for me and get our little Johnny boy down from that tree for me?” Moriarty asked sweetly, his murderous tone now completely vanished, and with nothing but a nod Moran complied and began climbing up the tree.

John had nowhere to go – up was impossible, and down would just give himself to Moriarty and Moran.

So he sat in the tree, hoping some miracle would occur.

* * *

“He’s going to fall,” Sherlock predicted as Harry took a swig of her gin. “He has to.”

“How do you know?” she asked.

“He’s following the same path John did – if he keeps climbing like that, he’ll run into that branch John snapped.”

“Moran’s heavier than John, so –”

“He’ll fall on his already-sore ass,” Sherlock finished with a smirk, excited to witness that sure-to-be beautiful moment.

“… _Already_ -sore?” Harry repeated, and Sherlock looked at her. “Oh, right.” After a moment, she spoke again. “Is Moriarty actually gay, though? Because him and Moran weren’t making googly-eyes at each other until you and John decided to stop hiding from your feelings.” Sherlock looked at her, and she looked back at him. “Just sayin’,” she informed him defensively, shrugging. “You’re smart,” she gestured to the projection. “Deduce.”

“With that logic, he probably isn’t,” Sherlock replied after a moment. “But he’s playing the part right, what with the fact that his fucking lime-green boxers are visible above the waist line, even now –”

“And the fact that he fucks Sebastian Moran twice daily,” Harry added.

“Good eye, but more like three or four.”

“Poor Moran,” Harry said, making a face of discomfort.

“He wants to help kill John; I have no sympathies.”

* * *

John watched as Sebastian Moran stepped onto the branch John had snapped, and he watched as the branch bent under his weight, sending Moran to the ground, hitting several branches on his way down. He watched as these events occurred, but still couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

Moran landed on his feet, and quickly fell to his hands and knees. John knew immediately something was wrong.

 _“FFFFFFFFUCK!”_  he shouted, and it was then Moriarty decided to voice concern.

“Can you stand, Sebbie?” he asked as Moran grabbed on to the tree’s trunk to pull himself up, not really sounding concerned after all.

“I twisted my ankle – augh!” he cried out as he tried to put pressure on that foot.

It was then Moriarty decided to actually care, rushing up to him and kissing him. John was taken aback for a moment, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

“What should I do, Seb?” Moriarty asked once he had stopped kissing him.

“I need a medkit,” Sebastian replied, leaning onto Moriarty.

“But he’s  _right here –_  he’s so  _close_  –” Moriarty tried to sway him through gritted teeth, but Moran cut him off.

“FUCK HIM!” Sebastian yelled. “Save him for the end!”

John couldn’t breathe as he watched Jim Moriarty glance up at him, smile wickedly, and then look back at Moran.

“I like the way you think, Seb,” he decided, and let Sebastian lean back against the tree.

* * *

Jim Moriarty took a few steps away from the scene – away from the tree that John Watson was in and Sebastian Moran was leaning against, and found a camera to address the audience with.

“To the Capitol, and to viewers of Panem: I’d like to apologize for this inconvenient turn of events. In all fairness, though, Sebastian’s health is a tad bit more important to me, right now, for what am I without him?”

“He’s just fueling their feigned love story,” Sherlock spoke his thoughts aloud, glaring at the screen.

“If any sponsors would kindly step forward with anything that could help my Sebastian, we would both appreciate it greatly,” Moriarty continued. “With that said, I would like to address the Capitol and the viewers of Panem again, but most importantly I would like to address Sherlock Holmes, John Watson’s sweet little darling over in lowly District Twelve.”

* * *

John glared down at Moriarty, anxious to hear what he was going to say, and angry that he was talking to his best friend.

* * *

Sherlock stared wide-eyed at the screen, hanging onto Moriarty’s every word.

“I do believe that I owe you a  _show…_ I owe you  _all_  a show…and I can assure you that the show  _will_  come,” Moriarty promised, pausing at all the right places and emphasizing all the right words. “So, Sherlock Holmes, you better take a good, long look at your beloved Johnny boy while you still can, and remember what you see…because after the show has come and gone, there will be no more John Watson to see. There will only be  _me.”_

* * *

With that, Moriarty turned around and faced John, smiling that same wicked smile.

“Well, we better be off.” John couldn’t muster any courage to reply. “Catch you later, Watson,” he concluded, and made his way to Sebastian to fix himself under his arm, to help Moran exit the scene with him.

Before John could stop himself, just when he thought Moriarty wasn’t listening, he muttered under his breath, “Fuck you.”

He heard chucking from down below as he watched the two limp away.

“Feeling sassy, are you, John? Well, don’t give me any ideas…” Moriarty said, making John’s blood run cold, and then they were gone.

John decided as soon as Moriarty thought about leaving that he was not getting down from the tree, and no one – not even the Capitol – could make him do otherwise. After gaining back his composure, he took a moment to assess his situation.

He was soaking wet, in a tree, with two knives and a throbbing arm. Without giving a thought to the millions people that could be watching him right now, John removed his shirt to provide a better look at his torso, and to get at least partially out of his soaking clothes. He knew nothing was broken or twisted, but just by looking at it John could see that his arms and chest was covered in bruises, and a deep cut was made into his upper arm. John surveyed his wound, finding it was about the length of his hand and was still bleeding profusely. If he didn’t fix it up, soon, he’d surely die of blood loss before Moriarty could kill him himself.

Just as he reached into his bag to see if there was anything he could use to tie up his wound, he heard a rustle of leaves just above him. John looked up for the source of the sound, expecting it to be just a squirrel or a bird of some sort, but instead found a small grey metal box, hanging from a parachute that was tangled in the branches above him, just within arm’s reach if John stretched far enough.

He expected it to be Sebastian Moran’s medical kit, but when John took it down from the parachute and inspected the parcel in his lap, he saw the number 12 stamped upon it. John slowly opened the box to reveal that it was filled-to-bursting with gauze, bandages, pain killers, ointments and creams, clean syringes and penicillin, and other medical supplies.

The sponsors had sent John a medical kit.

John closed the kit quickly, just to ensure that he had read the number right, and once he was convinced the medkit was indeed for him and not for Sebastian Moran, he looked up and around until he found a nearby camera.

“Thank you,” he said out loud, smiling at whomever was watching, and went to work on his arm.

Attached to the gauze was a small piece of paper – a note from Mycroft that read  _Great job. – M.H._  He was pleased, and so was the rest of the Capitol, as far as John could tell.

As John wrapped his arm in the gauze, he couldn’t help but take in the last few moments of peace he had, up in a tree in the woods. There were twelve tributes left, and if John didn’t have a huge target on his back already, he certainly did now, after today’s events.

After draping his wet shirt over the branch and putting on his jacket, he finally caved in and ate his last energy bar, taking small bites and saving it for when hunger struck him again. Somehow, he made it last all day, and chewed on the last bite as the Panem’s anthem rang over the Arena, and no dead were recalled.

John wasn’t sure how to feel about this, seeing as he himself was almost the lone face in the sky, but he knew the Capitol would be pissed.

* * *

The moment the broadcast flickered off, Harry stood up and stretched.

“Fuck that shit,” she decided, voice slurred, finishing off her bottle of gin. “I’m going to bed,” she looked down at Sherlock, who had not moved. “You should too.”

Sherlock looked up at her.

“I’m not tired,” he informed her, looking away to begin to clean their bottles from the sitting room sofa. “Can you make it up to the guest room?” he asked as he heard Harry make her way to the stairs.

“Of course I can,” she assured him, but it was just a moment later Sherlock heard a gentle thud behind him. “…Maybe not.”

Sherlock stood up and turned around to find Harry sitting on the second step, looking as if she had just decided to rest there. He rolled his eyes and walked up to her, speaking as he did.

“Perhaps you should lay off the liquor for a little while,” he suggested – she was beginning to worry him.

“Fuck, no! I can’t watch this shit sober!” Harry argued, allowing him to help her stand up and up the stairs

“Just think about it,” Sherlock tried, and Harry made a face to make it look like she was in deep thought.

“Hm…no,” she concluded, and Sherlock let the conversation drop as they reached the top of the stairs.

“Get some rest, Harry,” he said, but before he could complete his sentence Harry threw her arms around him, pulling him into a hug.

“’Night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, Harry,” Sherlock replied, and she let go and went into the guest room.

As soon as Sherlock had reached the bottom of the staircase, the phone rang. Careful not to disturb Harry, he raced over to the phone and picked it up.

“Mycroft?” he asked.

“Hello, Sherlock –” Mycroft began.

“Is John alright?” Sherlock asked, cutting his brother off.

“John is fine, Sherlock. I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Me? Of course I’m alright – why?” Sherlock asked, suspicious. He had only had one bottle of gin – could Mycroft tell through the phone?

“I’m sure you can imagine why,” Mycroft said.

There was a moment of dead air as Sherlock took a moment to understand why: John Watson almost died, today.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock promised.

“Are you sure?” Mycroft asked.

“I’m  _fine,”_  Sherlock repeated. “Goodnight.”

“Good –” Mycroft began with a sigh, but Sherlock hung up on his brother before he could finish.

Unsure what else to do with himself, Sherlock Holmes sat himself on the sofa, put his head in his hands, and despite himself, cried. In the morning, he would be as analytical as he ever was, and cheer John on as he always had, but for now, he couldn’t stop thinking about Moriarty’s “show” that he felt he owed to the viewers. Whatever it involved, John could not live to see the end of it, and the worst part of it was that Sherlock had to watch every agonizing minute of it.

He hated the Hunger Games, he hated the Capitol – he always had.

But tonight, and the next day, and every other day until that piece of shit was dead, he hated Jim Moriarty.


	21. The Fog

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg I posted the chapter wrong because I'm a butthead THIS IS THE REAL CHAPTER i'm so sorry

_“I do believe that I owe you a show…”_

John was face-to-face with Jim Moriarty, with nothing but a dull knife with a bent blade to protect himself with. Moriarty sneered.

_“I owe you all a show…”_

John looked down at Moriarty’s hands – in one, a knife the size of John’s arm; in the other, Irene Adler’s whip.

_“So, Sherlock Holmes, you better take a good, long look at your beloved Johnny boy while you still can, and remember what you see…because after the show has come and gone, there will be no more John Watson to see.”_

As if it had a mind of its own, the whip snaked its way up John’s body and wound itself around his neck. Moriarty pulled the whip back, and John fell to his knees.

_“There will only be me.”_

John looked up, into Moriarty’s cold, dark eyes.

_“BORING!”_

Jim Moriarty grinned maniacally, stabbing the knife through John Watson’s chest – the cannon’s blast echoing through his ears as he did –

 _“SHERLOCK!”_ John called, sitting up quickly, almost falling out of the tree he had been sleeping in. Once he had regained his balance, he looked around, taking deep breaths, convincing himself what he had just witnessed was a dream.

He was still alive – for the time being.

He wasn’t dead – for now.

Moriarty hadn’t killed him – yet.

He was safe – until he wasn’t.

Once he had relatively calmed himself down, he noticed that it was an extremely foggy day in the Hunger Games Arena – he could barely see five feet in front of him. He figured it was the Capitol’s doing – probably to give tributes the element of surprise, considering the fact that no one had died the day before.

Knowing there wouldn’t be much time before the Capitol tried to coax John out of the tree, he took his jacket off, put his now-mostly-dry shirt back on, put his jacket back on over his shirt, and fixed his knapsack to his back again. Right when he was about to begin climbing down, he looked at the ground and suddenly realized he was in a  _very_  high tree.

Suddenly, the image of Sebastian Moran falling from the tree the day before came flooding back to him, and he gripped onto the trunk, digging his nails into the bark.

_“FUCK HIM! Save him for the end!”_

_“I do believe that I owe you a show…”_

John braced himself, closing his eyes for a moment.

“You got yourself up here, Watson; time to get yourself down…” he muttered to himself, and slowly and cautiously began his decent down the tree.

After what felt like five minutes, John had finally reached the ground. Now that he was on the ground, back onto the same playing field as everyone else as opposed to simply spectating from above, John quickly took off his knapsack and retrieved his fourth knife. With his weapon at the ready, aimed to attack anything and anyone that happened to burst through the fog, John began to slowly walk, anxious to find a break in the vapor.

With the fog clouding his vision, John had to rely on his hearing more than his sight to maneuver through the forest. Suddenly, every snapping twig was an enemy in John’s mind, and he found he was spending more time jumping in the direction of every noise he heard than he was spending walking.

John closed his eyes for just a moment and took a deep breath to calm himself, but when he opened his eyes his view had changed.

It seemed that the fog had somewhat lifted, allowing John to now just barely see twenty feet in front of him, which would’ve made John extremely happy if it wasn’t for the fact that he was looking at Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran.

_“I owe you all a show…”_

As if they were in a dream, Moriarty and Moran walked by John slowly, paying him no mind as John stood shock-still a mere twenty feet away.

_“I…”_

Moriarty seemed to be speaking, and he slowly began to turn his head in John’s direction.

_“…owe…”_

Jim Moriarty’s eyes found John’s, and John’s entire body seized up. This was it – this was the end of him.

_“…you…”_

Moriarty spoke the word, and just as slowly as he had turned his head toward John, he turned his head away.

And that was it. The moment was gone, and suddenly John couldn’t see Jim Moriarty anymore. In fact, he couldn’t even see where Jim was anymore. As quickly as the fog cleared, the fog went back to how it was before, and John couldn’t see a foot before him.

He was dreaming – he had to have been.

But he wasn’t, and he knew he wasn’t. This was just how the Hunger Games was.

* * *

“Oh my god,” Sherlock murmured to himself.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Oh my god!” Sherlock exclaimed, chuckling to himself.

“Sherlock, what the fuck is going on?!”

“Harry you will _never_ believe this – Jim Moriarty is afraid of  _John!”_  Sherlock announced gleefully.

Harry looked up at Sherlock, incredulous.

“What?”

“Think about it,” he insisted. “The Capitol said this fog is a gas – psyching them up using fear and stimulus. It’s altering their thought patterns to think that they’re seeing and hearing things that may not necessarily be there, or in some cases like with John and the tree, are definitely there but not to that degree.”

“Okay,” Harry acknowledged.

“Now, imagine you’re Moriarty for a moment –” Sherlock went on.

“No, thanks,” Harry said, making an uncomfortable face.

“Just hear me, then. You’re Jim Moriarty – you are the ringleader of the Hunger Games. Your  _entire demeanor_  is based on keeping a cool face, being as annoyingly cunning as possible, and knowing what you’re doing to give the audience what they want.”

“Okay…”

“Now you’re being placed in a situation where you have no control over anything because you have no control over your own mind. You’re trying to keep your straight face, but you’re also terrified out of your wits. What do you think would be more embarrassing for the audience to see, coming from someone like you: you walking right by an enemy that you could have very easily killed, or attacking something that wasn’t even there?” Sherlock asked.

It was then understanding flickered in Harry’s eyes.

“I’d just walk right by,” she answered.

“Exactly! If Moriarty wasn’t afraid of John – if he had  _no_ doubts of whether John was there or not– he’d go right for him, and we both know it.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But he  _didn’t,”_  Sherlock repeated.

Harry looked up at Sherlock, smiling for the first time in days.

“Moriarty’s afraid of John!” she exclaimed.

“Moriarty’s afraid of John!” Sherlock yelled excitedly.

“YES!” Harry cheered, high-fiving Sherlock. “Moriarty’s fucking afraid of John – how far have John’s chances of winning gone up?” she asked.

“A lot – a whole lot –” Sherlock assured her. “Harry – John might just win this!”

* * *

John kept walking – very quietly, very cautiously – through the forest, in the direction he saw Moriarty and Moran came from. He tried to keep forward, but if he was completely honest with himself, he could’ve been going in circles for all he knew. Sherlock would’ve probably known his way around and through the fog, if he was there with him –

_“I would like to address Sherlock Holmes, John Watson’s sweet little darling over in lowly District Twelve.”_

For the first time since he was reaped for the Hunger Games, John didn’t want to think about Sherlock.

After walking for an amount of time John would never be able to identify, he suddenly heard leaves rustling in front of him – too loud to be an animal.

Or…was it from his right?

John stopped, listening.

The sound seemed to be coming from all around him – someone was approaching him – someone who probably had the intention of killing him –

It was Moriarty, rounding back to kill him – to give him the show that he owed Panem –

He suddenly felt someone – two someones – bump into him, and John spun around and cried out in panic, pointing his knife toward his intruders.

_“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO?!”_

Their lips did not match what they were yelling, but that didn’t matter. John did not stop screaming – finding himself unable to do anything else, paralyzed by fear – until one of the people who had bumped into him grabbed his shoulders, shouting at him.

“John! JOHN!” a girl yelled, and John finally closed his mouth. “It’s us!”

John blinked, recognition coming back to him.

“Sally! Philip!” he gasped, relieved. “Jesus, we’ve gotta get out of here –”

“No fucking shit,” Philip agreed, looking as white as a sheet.

“Come on, this way –” Sally ordered, leading the two boys the way John was headed.

* * *

“Jesus,” Harry murmured, and she had good reason to.

Sherlock had never heard John scream that much and so loudly in the entire time he had known him. Even if the sound was almost drowned out by Sally and Philip’s screams of fright, the individual sound of John’s scream was stuck in Sherlock’s mind, and he knew it would always remain there – something his hard drive of a brain could not delete – just to emerge in Sherlock’s nightmares.

* * *

The three children ran through the fog, racing each other, trying to find the area out of the fog where they could see clearly – there had to be one in that goddamned Arena, there just  _had_  to be –

Philip had taken the lead from John and Sally when suddenly, in an area where John couldn’t even see his own feet when he looked down, Philip tripped over something and fell to the ground, crying out as he did. At first, John and Sally ran right by him, but spun around and doubled back when it registered that Philip had fallen.

When Philip got up to his hands and knees, he turned around to see what he had tripped over, and started screaming again. He had tripped over the dead body of Kate Halstead, and fallen face-first into the puddle of blood she had left behind.

Philip continuously screamed, looking from Kate to his blood-covered hands and shirt to John to Sally back to his hands –

Tears leaped into Philip’s eyes and streamed down his cheeks as Sally kneeled down before him, placing her hands on the sides of his face.

“Philip! Philip, it’s me – it’s Sally – you’re alright just calm down, please –” she begged, but Philip was doing nothing but screaming and babbling back at her.

“I can’t do this – I CAN’T DO THIS – I’m dying I’m dying I’m bleeding I’m dying – I’M DYING –”

John stood awkwardly before them, unsure of what to do or how to help, until, out of the corner of his eye, Philip caught the sight of John’s knife.

“Greg – You killed him – he’s dead –” Philip began, speaking to John, pulling himself out of Sally’s grip and looking up at him, and suddenly a fresh wave of paranoia washed over John.

“I didn’t –” he began to defend himself, but Philip cut him off.

“Kill me,” he begged, voice wavering.

“What –”

“KILL ME!” Philip pleaded, making a grab for John’s knife, but John pulled his arm up over his head, preventing Philip from touching the weapon. “PLEASE I can’t do it myself I can’t I’M DYING!” he shouted, sobbing. “KILL ME BEFORE SOMEONE ELSE DOES!”

John looked at the pile of blood Philip was sitting in –

The career’s body next to the crying boy –

Their blood mixing into one huge puddle –

If Philip kept screaming like this, Moriarty would surely come back and kill them all –

Philip Anderson was dying –

_“NO!”_

There was the sound of a cannon, and John was running, and suddenly, his knife wasn’t in his hand.

* * *

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Harry whispered, and Sherlock, unsure how to give her comfort, or even how to comfort himself at this point, offered logic.

“This is why they don’t just make the Arena out of this stuff in the first place,” he explained. “We know Philip wasn’t dying, but they don’t, because Philip saw the blood, connected it to himself and his fear of dying in the Arena, and convinced John to…to do that,” he said, not finding it in himself to say John’s actions out loud – that he had killed Philip Anderson. “The prolonged exposure is driving them insane.”

* * *

Within a minute of sprinting through the forest, John pushed his way past what felt like a wall of brush, and entered a clearing that was free of mist; he could see what felt like miles in front of him.

He had done it – he had escaped the fog.

John sighed out a breath of relief, but before he could start moving again or even begin to catch his breath, he heard a screech from behind him.

John Watson turned around to find Sally Donovan almost jumping out from the brush, brandishing John’s blood-covered knife, and pushing John to the ground.

“YOU’RE DEAD, WATSON!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this chapter! :D I wanted to just say that I kinda started a Pinterest account and made it like 90% Hungerlock stuff and 10% stuff that I just generally like, so if you want to see things such as how I view the characters and locations and even some things about me personally if you're curious about that sort of thing. WARNING: there are spoilers, but they aren't said outright so go in at your own risk. The link: https://www.pinterest.com/saraherbert37/
> 
> Anyway, the next chapter will be posted FRIDAY the 29th of January, so I'll see you then! ^^ <3


	22. Freak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so last week I accidentally totally messed up and posted a chapter twice by the wrong number name and it was so confusing I like died of embarrassment (big thanks to DaringD and Amairinoki for letting me know about it, though), so if I were you I'd go back and make sure you've read Chapter 21 before reading this one. Best wishes and I hope you all enjoy the chapter! :D

Before Sally could pin him down, John wormed his way out from under her, stood up and backed away, wide-eyed as she stood back up. She quickly made contact with John again, shoving him into the nearest tree and pinning him against it.

“YOU KILLED HIM!” she shouted in his face, tears streaming down her cheeks. “HE WASN’T EVEN DYING YOU  _FUCKER!”_

“He was – he said –” John stuttered, but she cut him off.

“HE WAS  _FINE_  AND YOU KILLED HIM!”

“It was mercy –” John tried to assure her, but she was hearing none of it.

 _“MERCY?!_  You stabbed him  _FIVE TIMES!”_  she screeched, but John could specifically remember stabbing him just the one time – or maybe it was five – could it have been more? John honestly couldn’t remember, now, but Sally pressed his knife – the knife he had just used to stab Philip – to his neck. “I’m going to kill you – you  _FREAK!”_

John struggled in her grip, but she was surprisingly strong in her rage. Never in his life would he have expected Sally to be the one to kill him. But then again, he never would have expected to be in the Hunger Games, either.

Desperate, John began to beg.

“Please! Please no – I didn’t mean to – Sally –”

“You’re a freak, and so is your freak-ass  _boyfriend –”_  she shouted, and spat in his face. “And you’re  _never_  going home – over my dead body –”

She raised the knife over her head, and John cried out.

“NO PLEASE –” John shouted, closing his eyes, when suddenly –

There was a slight sound from his left, and Sally’s grip on him loosened significantly. John opened his eyes to find an arrow sticking out of Sally’s neck. She looked at him, all the anger washing away, and fear taking its place. She slowly turned to face whoever had just attacked her.

Before either of them could respond, another arrow was sent through the air, piercing Sally’s chest, and she fell to the ground.

It was Moriarty – it had to have been – Moriarty owed the audience a show; he wouldn’t just give the promise of killing John up to a fourteen year old girl. Now that Sally was out of the picture (or at least, was on her way to that point), he would emerge from wherever he was hiding and the show would begin.

Except it wouldn’t, because John chose that moment to sprint for his life as the cannon sounded behind him.

* * *

The camera cut away to check in on some of the other tributes, and Harry Watson put her head in her shaking hands.

“Fuck,” she murmured, and then looked up at Sherlock. “This is brutal – can you get me another beer?” she asked. Per Sherlock’s request, she had backed off of the gin.

“How many beers have you had, today?” Sherlock asked, and Harry looked out into a space on the floor, taking a deep breath out.

“Fuck, I dunno – probably not a lot,” Harry shrugged. “There was one with breakfast, one when John woke up, one…a gin when…you know…and now I want another beer.”

“Harry, it’s noon,” Sherlock informed her, and she looked up at him, confused.

“Is it?” she asked.

“Yes – you’ve had two beers and a gin, you’ve barely eaten anything since you’ve got here –”

“You never eat –” Harry began to interject.

“That’s not the point,” Sherlock interrupted. “The point is that you want another beer.”

“Yeah, I do,” Harry said. “Problem?”

Sherlock took a breath and looked at her, unsure how to tell her what he was thinking – he still couldn’t believe he had let this happen. He should’ve known from the very moment she asked that she would become hooked to the stuff, but he let her take the bottle anyway. He decided to do what he did best: be as blunt as possible.

“Yes, there is a problem,” Sherlock informed her. “I…I think you’re forming an addiction.”

“What, to alcohol?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “And it’s my fault,” he added, trying not to put all of the pressure on her. It made sense to blame himself, at least to him: he had been supplying her and letting her take as much as she wanted. When she first requested to go through his stash, he figured he could keep an eye on her and make sure this didn’t happen, but the Games got in the way of that. The Hunger Games got in the way of everything, it seemed.

Sherlock expected Harry to become aggressively defensive or hateful at his words. However, Harry laughed.

“Sherlock, I don’t have a problem, honestly,” she assured him. “I’ll stop when…” he could hear the words stop in her throat before they made the mistake of being spoken: _“when John comes back.”_ They had no way of knowing for sure if John would ever see District 12 again, and she knew it. “…when… –”

“If John dies in that Arena, you’ll never stop,” he broke it to her quickly. “You’re not like the person you used to be, Harry – all you do is spend your time here and drink and go home and lie to your parents about how you haven’t been drinking.”

It was then Harry grew angry.

“Well, that may have something to do with the fact that  _my brother is in the fucking Hunger Games Arena_ – I thought you, of all people, would understand that –”

In response, Sherlock stood up, trying to avoid feeling the lump in his throat. He kneeled down in front of Harry, so they were face-to-face. He did not touch her, but he did look up at her flushed face, her blue-green eyes, and wanted to hold her, protect her from the fate he almost had to live.

“I know, and I do – I understand what you’re doing here, too – with this –” he gestured to the empty bottle beside them. “I know what it feels like and I know how you feel and how good it makes you feel –”

Harry chuckled in disbelief, shaking her head and trying to turn away.

“How can you possibly know how it makes me feel?” she asked, glaring up at him. “How could you know how it makes me feel better than this shithole we’ve landed ourselves in?!” she asked, her voice rising, and Sherlock stood and began to pace. “My brother’s fucking dying – your  _boyfriend’s_ fucking  _dying_ – and you’re concerned about _me_ – that makes a whole lot of goddamn sense, doesn’t it?! How could you even know what an addiction looks like – you’re so fucking convinced I have one –”

“BECAUSE I WAS AN ADDICT,” Sherlock shouted, and Harry stopped yelling, her entire demeanor softening in confusion.

There was a moment of silence as they stared at each other, wide-eyed. Sherlock had never told a soul he was an addict – John and Mycroft had found out on their own; he never had to say the words. And now, here he was, just having shouted it in his sitting room in front of his best friend’s little sister.

Sherlock chose to be the first one to speak.

“I…was an addict. I was addicted to the Morphling the Capitol supplied for Mycroft.”

“Morphling?” Harry asked, confused.

“It’s a…it’s a pain killer, but it’s highly addictive. I couldn’t handle the thought of getting reaped into the Games, or John –” the lump in his throat was finally pushing through, causing Sherlock to shakily gasp when he went for breath. “I started when I was eleven – just a few months before I was going to be old enough to be reaped, and Mycroft had left District Twelve for a meeting in the Capitol, and I was dreading my birthday and he was gone and I had seen a box of it just under the bathroom sink and I just...” he trailed off, but then continued on. “You – you inject it – see –” He extended his left arm and pointed to the inside of his elbow, showing her the long-faded the needle scars in his veins. “The only reason I’m standing here today is because of your brother,” he informed her.

“What – what happened?” Harry asked, still obviously shaken.

“He had caught me after I had overdosed. I was fifteen – I had just turned fifteen. It was a bad night – a Saturday night. Winter – just after the victory tour had finished. I had built a tolerance to the stuff – I just wanted more and more and... That night, I took so much that I passed out – I was lucky I didn’t vomit, or I would’ve died instantly. Really, it was just a matter of time, at that point... But the next day, John came over and found me passed out on my bed. He called my name, he shook me – I wasn’t responding to him at all. He knew what to do though – he wants to be a doctor, so he  _would_  know what to do. When someone’s overdosed and you can’t wake them up just by shaking them, but there’s places where you can pinch them that’ll cause them to react, even if they’re unconscious. He pinched my ear – right here,” he told her, pointing to the ear. “And he knew that I was alive. Then he helped me wake up, and when I started coming to – when I realized he was there... My needles were out and I was still wearing a tourniquet and everything. Not only that, but you look…you look so different when you’ve overdosed. My lips and my nails had this blue tinge, and I was sweating, and my pupils were pinpointed… Imagine waking up like that in front of your best friend – someone you loved.”

He looked at Harry for the first time since he began his story, and she stared back, sympathetic, mouth slightly agape.

“Mycroft has always described me as someone who did not know shame or discomfort. I was so…embarrassed when I woke up and found John putting my needles in a matchbox on my desk – right where they belonged; like he knew,” Sherlock admitted. “I expected for him to be angry – to ask me what the needles were about – why he couldn’t wake me up and why I looked like a fucking  _freak –”_  he said through gritted teeth, just like Sally Anderson had called him one just now through the television – he noticed how upset he was becoming, how tears were stinging at his eyes, and took a moment to compose himself before he went on. “But he didn’t. He didn’t question anything. He didn’t even ask if I was okay – he just made nothing of it, like nothing had happened. We stayed in my room all day – we played cards and did homework. The whole time I expected him to say something –  _anything_ about it – but he never did.

“That Monday, however, he didn’t come to school, and I knew what was happening. I came home, and there was no Morphling in the house. My stashes – all of them – had been found and confiscated. But my room was exactly the same as it used to be – my sock index was even in order. John had told Mycroft, and together they had ransacked my room, and John had went through and returned everything to its natural state – just the way I wanted it. I expected a lecture from Mycroft, but, again, I didn’t get anything. John had convinced Mycroft not to say anything.

“I didn’t speak to either of them for a week, after that. Mycroft and John will probably always think that I was angry about them throwing away my stash. I wasn’t angry, though, not really; I knew I needed to get off of the stuff. I was ashamed – so incredibly ashamed. I couldn’t look John or my brother in the eye. John has always said that I was so smart and brilliant and this was…it stimulated my brain but it wasn’t who  _I_  was. I went through the withdrawal symptoms on my own; I couldn’t sleep and I couldn’t stop moving and I was always  _so damn cold_  and I was always racing to the bathroom to vomit and I wished that I could talk it through to someone – not feel so alone…

“John and I go out beyond the fence, sometimes,” he revealed. He considered hiding it from her, but fuck it; if he was telling her about this, he might as well tell her about that, too.

“You do?” she asked.

“Yes, but you’re not supposed to know.”

“I didn’t hear a word,” she promised.

“Thank you,” he said, and got back to the story. “After school one day, he followed me. He didn’t make it any secret; we just walked until I decided to talk to him. He forgave me for everything, and made me promise to never pick the Morphling back up again, and to apologize to Mycroft. I’ve been clean for almost three years, now.”

He looked at Harry, nodding to himself, finished with his story.

“Jesus,” she murmured. “I never knew –”

“No one does, apart from the three of us – well, four of us, now. John and Mycroft have kept it incredibly under wraps; before you ask, no, not out of embarrassment. They didn’t want me to live with that label. They didn’t want my reputation to be stained like that. I’m already the freak, as you saw; they didn’t want me to be the addict, too. And I don’t want you to live with that sort of label, either. Think of John, Harry. If he comes home, would you rather him come home to the family and friends who love him and he’s missed so much? Or an alcoholic sister and a best friend that let her continue?”

“Right…” Harry said, avoiding his eyes. “…Cold turkey, then?” she asked, looking back up at him.

“I’ll go dump whatever’s here,” Sherlock said, began to walk to the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” Harry called after him.

“Yeah?”

“…Thanks.”

* * *

John ran until his legs had gave out from under him, forcing him to the ground. Absolutely exhausted, John crawled into a bush and fell asleep there, not giving a single damn about the fact that it was still early in the afternoon. He needed to get out – out of the Arena, out of his head – and that was the only way he could.

* * *

There was no significant news from anyone until the cameras cut to the careers at sundown, just in time to witness Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran meet back up with Irene Adler and Jeff Hope.

“Sorry we’re late,” Moriarty said, sitting down next to the food crate and tossing a bag of jerky to Moran, and taking an apple for himself. “Ran into John Watson,” he announced.

“Oh? How did that go?” Irene asked.

“He got away; Seb hurt himself,” Moriarty said, nodding over to Moran, who was in search of something in the medical crate to help his leg.

“I’m fine,” Moran promised through gritted teeth, speaking in a way that could only mean that they had talked about how badly they should play up his injury, and Moriarty was going back on his word.

“Have you seen Kate? I sent her to find you two last night,” Irene said, nonchalant.

Moriarty looked at Moran, and Moran spoke.

“Dead.”

“Hm,” Irene mused, looking disinterested.

“There was some fog that we got mixed up in, and she attacked us.”

“Tried to,” Moran corrected him.

“Tried to attack us. Moran was too quick for her, though,” Moriarty said.

“No skin off my back,” Irene said with a shrug. “That just makes less work for me.”

“Why didn’t you both go?” Moriarty asked. “I’m curious.”

“I was off,” Jeff explained. “She had to stay to watch the supplies. The cannon should sound before the night’s out,” he announced proudly.

“Excellent – what’ll that be; four deaths tonight? I’m certainly impressed. Tell me, Hope: who’s the unfortunate soul?”

“The girl from Twelve, surprisingly –” Jeff began, but suddenly the entire atmosphere of the camp had changed. It was suddenly so incredibly obvious that Jim Moriarty was pissed.

“Did you just say ‘Twelve,’ Hope? As in,  _District_ Twelve?”

“Y-Yes?” Jeff replied hesitantly.

“You mean the same District Twelve that we all agreed to leave for me and Sebastian?” Moriarty asked, and Hope’s eyes grew wide.

“I – I didn’t know, Jim, I –”

Before he could say more, or even react to what was about to happen, Moran threw a knife that landed in Jeff’s chest, sending him to the ground. While he was down, Moran stood over him, stepping on his arm, pinning Jeff down.

“Your services will no longer be needed,” Moriarty said, his voice deadly as he glared down at him, and Moran stabbed Jeff Hope in the face with his machete.

* * *

John awoke to the sound of a cannon, but once he realized it wasn’t for him he decided that was enough comfort for him, and fell back asleep.

The next time John woke was at the sound of Panem’s anthem, but he didn’t move from the bush. Instead, John closed his eyes, covering his face with his hands. There was no need to remind himself that he had directly and indirectly caused two of today’s deaths. Of course, he was curious as to the fourth person who had died was, but not enough to open his eyes and chance seeing Philip or Sally up above him.

John did not move until the Anthem had ended. He opened his eyes, and saw a parachute floating down from the trees. Confused, he got out of the bush and stood up, just in time to watch the parachute land on the ground at his feet. It was a rectangular metal box, slightly smaller than his medkit, marked with a large “12.”

John’s brows furrowed together, even more confused. He hadn’t _done_ anything, apart from panicking and killing Philip Anderson, and _not_ dying when Sally Donovan was killed. Was that really worth a sponsor gift?

He opened the box, finding three small vials – one marked “TO DRINK” and two marked “TO INJECT,” and a needle.

John was extremely confused, and read the directions on the lid. “INJECT IMMEDIATELY. INJECT AGAIN AFTER TWELVE HOURS. DRINK UPON WAKING.” Under the instructions was a message from Mycroft:  _Sorry this took so long to get to you; I hope it’s not too late. You’re doing great, Mary. – M.H._

“Mary?” John murmured. Had someone at the Capitol made a mistake and sent it to one District 12 tribute instead of the other?

No, the Capitol didn’t make mistakes.

John looked around, looking for Mary, until he heard a strangled cry from above him.

Mary Morstan, was struggling to climb down from a tree, foaming at the mouth and shaking as if in a seizure the whole time.


	23. PART THREE: The Victor // Kindness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! Sorry about not posting yesterday - didn't look at my calendar all day. Next chapter will be posted the 27th of February! I hope you all had a great day! <3

Sherlock and Harry had fallen asleep on separate sides of the sofa, their heads resting on the armrests.

They had stayed up for most of the night after the broadcast ended – neither of them could really sleep after the events the fog had caused to come to pass. So they had sat themselves on the sofa, facing each other, and just talked. They shared stories of their lives and of their siblings – they tried to keep things upbeat despite the fact that Harry’s brother was in the Hunger Games and that Sherlock’s life wasn’t exactly a happy one, and it worked, surprisingly.

Harry talked about how she realized when she was six that while all the girls in her class wanted to hold hands and send “valentimes” to boys, she wanted to do the same, but with the girls. She explained how when she was twelve she dated a boy for a little while to please her parents. It lasted about a month, and then she went to secretly dating girls around the district who’d like to experiment with girls, including Clara, who was her first “real” girlfriend.

Sherlock, who didn’t have any parents to please, explained that he never really felt any attraction to anyone. When she was alive, his mother told him that he was just a late bloomer, and it was completely fine that he didn’t have a crush on anyone – not even a childhood crush – at nine years old. After Mycroft came back after the Games and it was just the two of them, and Mycroft didn’t really seem to care either way, but by that point Sherlock was already crushing on John Watson, and there was no sign that he’d ever stop.

Harry asked if Mycroft had ever had a girlfriend (or a boyfriend), and Sherlock recounted the time he had “accidentally” set his first girlfriend’s hair on fire when he was just three years old, and how Mycroft had remained strong in his quest to find a girlfriend (and just keeping her far away from his brother) until shortly after he returned from the Games. He had carried a few relationships here and there for the next couple of years, but they were few and far between. Now, he didn’t see anyone at all, finding food far more attractive, Sherlock had joked.

They talked about school, and how Sherlock disrespected all the teachers and shouted out how even the right answers were wrong in each class, and how brilliant but also annoying John thought it was, and how Sherlock had borderline failed each class just because of how much back talk he gave to the teachers.

They spoke of better times, and how wonderful it would be if John returned home.

Sherlock barely remembered falling asleep that night, but he certainly knew it when he was awake.

The sun had just barely risen when the phone rang, tearing the two from their dreams where things were somewhat nicer than the reality they were in.

Sherlock looked at the clock in the sitting room on the way to the phone. It was barely five in the morning, and that sent a panic through his body unlike anything he had ever experienced.

This was it. Sherlock would pick up the phone, and it would be Mycroft, and John would be dead.

He glanced back at Harry, his eyes giving away the worry that his mouth would never speak, and her jaw dropped slightly, her eyes filling with tears.

“Let me –” she tried, getting off the sofa, but Sherlock shook his head.

Sherlock picked up the phone.

“Mycroft,” he said quietly into the receiver. He tried to ask about John – about the reason for his call – but nothing of the sort came out of his mouth. “M-Mycroft –” Tears sprang to his eyes as his voice broke, and he covered his mouth.

“I’m here, Sherlock, and John is fine, but I need you to listen to me,” Mycroft said, speaking quickly. “Can you do that, Sherlock?”

“Yes – I’m listening,” Sherlock promised, feeling relieved that John was still alive. He looked over at Harry and gave her a thumbs-up, and she nodded in understanding, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Alright, good. Do you remember when I was in the Hunger Games –”

“Yes, of course I remember –” Sherlock started, trying to make Mycroft cut to the chase.

 _“Do you remember when I was in the Hunger Games_  and a woman from the Capitol came to interview you about me?” Mycroft repeated, completing his question.

“Yes.”

“And do you remember how you wouldn’t give her any real information, bit her, and chased her out of the house shouting ‘you repel me’?” Mycroft asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said quietly.

“The Capitol is on their way right now – they should be at your door at nine o’clock sharp. When the Hunger Games was down to its final twelve tributes, the Capitol sent out reporters to interview the families of each tribute, and they will broadcast the interviews when it’s down to the final six. You may never be on the actual broadcast; John may not make it to the final six –”

“He will,” Sherlock mumbled.

“– but you still have to get interviewed by the Capitol. You aren’t nine anymore; if you bite the reporter or are disrespectful to her in any way she could hurt your reputation – and John’s – tremendously. I know how much you’d love to throw her out again, but you can’t this time without hurting yourselves. The way you present yourself will highly reflect how the rest of John’s time in the Arena plays out, do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” Sherlock said, but then realized something. “She – you keep saying she. And  _again_  – why?”

Mycroft sighed, as if unsure of how to say what he needed to address.

“Do you remember the name of the reporter who you bit?” he asked.

“No – I deleted it.”

“Her name was Kitty Riley, and she’s going to be interviewing you again.”

“Fuck,” Sherlock muttered.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock; I tried to get you paired with someone else,” Mycroft said, as Sherlock turned around to exchange looks with Harry.

“What about the Watson’s?” he asked, still looking at her.

“They will also be at the Watson’s at nine o’clock, but I imagine the Capitol would be using most of your interview.”

“So they come in four hours?” Sherlock asked, turning back.

“Yes. How does the house look?” Mycroft asked, and Sherlock looked around himself at the empty beer bottles and broken glass on the floor.

“Uh…”

“That is why I called now as opposed to later; you need the house to be spotless by the time Ms. Riley and the camera crew arrives. You’re trying to make the best impression you can. The better the impression, the more sponsors John will receive.”

“Okay,” Sherlock said. “Anything else I should know?”

“That’s as much as information as I have, or am at liberty to give out. I wish I could be there for you, Sherlock,” Mycroft said quietly.

“You are,” Sherlock assured his brother. “I should go clean the house.”

“You should. Good luck, Sherlock.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock said, and hung up the phone.

“What’s going on? Who’s coming?” Harry asked, and Sherlock turned to face her.

“The Capitol’s coming; we’re being interviewed about how we feel about John making it to the final six,” Sherlock said.

His words sent Harry into motion – she strode into the hall closet and grabbed the broom and dustpan and the counter brush it contained, and then went into the kitchen for the garbage bin. Dropping the bin before Sherlock’s feet, she offered him the two cleaning supplies.

“Choose your weapon,” she said, and Sherlock picked the broom. “Okay, let’s get cleaning –” Harry said, walking to the nearest table.

“Wait, what about you?” Sherlock asked.

“…I’ve got this thing, don’t I?” Harry asked slowly, holding up her brush.

“No,” Sherlock said, reaching out to take it from her, but she pulled away before he could touch it. “You’ve got to get home.”

“I know, but not until this house is clean. I made this mess too, and you’ve gotta make an impression to the Capitol – they’ll flip if they see that the house they ‘so graciously’ gave to you and Mycroft is trashed.”

“And they’ll realize I’m not the knight in shining armor and purple flowers their John deserves and make sure he dies before Johnlock happens,” Sherlock added, his voice empty.

“Well that obviously can’t happen, can it?” Harry asked. “Let’s get cleaning.”

* * *

Mary Morstan did not wake until sunrise, when the morning dew turned to a mist that looked nothing like the fog John had found himself in, and John decided that that would be a good time to make a fire.

When she sat up, John looked up to find her frantically reaching for what he imagined to be her spear, looking around and finding that it and the two bags she had left tied up in the tree were inconveniently placed on the other side of John.

“You’re up,” John said, grabbing her sponsor gift and pulling out the “TO DRINK” vial. “It says to drink this as soon as you come to,” he informed her, offering it to her.

“What is that?” she asked, her eyes skeptical and voice hoarse.

“It’s medicine. From the sponsors.” He held up the container. “See?”

Eyeing him suspiciously, she snatched the vial out of his hands, unscrewed the cap, and downed the liquid in one shot.

“Do you want some beans?” he asked, holding up his can. “It’s all I have in my pack.”

“Did you take anything from my bag?” she asked in response.

“No – I wouldn’t – it’s all there; you can check and see for yourself once you’ve rested – hey, I said  _rest –”_  John ordered as Mary got up and walked around the fire to her bag of apples. Within moments, the entire bag was dumped into the fire.

“One of those dickhead careers poisoned my food,” she said, moving into her other bag and taking out whatever food was in there and dumping that into the fire, as well. She then took out her canteen of water and dumped it out onto the ground. She then turned to John and held her hand out expectantly. “My sponsor gift?” she asked.

“Right,” John nodded, giving her the box. “Here.”

It was only then that she went back to where she had woken up.

“You injected me, I take it?” she asked, not looking up.

“Yeah – after you fell out of the tree.”

“When was that?” she asked.

“It was just after the Anthem, so…ten o’clock?” John guessed. “So you should probably take the rest of the dosage in about five hours.”

“Right,” Mary said, closing the box and putting it into her bag. “You still lied to me, you know,” she reminded him.

It took a moment for John to realize what she was talking about: Mycroft. Even though John was extremely pleased that Mycroft was looking out for the both of them, that didn’t change anything between him and Mary. He had led her to believe they had an even playing field up until the night before the Games truly began, where all of his lies unraveled before him: not only did he know their mentor on a personal level, but he was the older brother of the boy who was not only John’s best friend but who was also in love with him. This gave John a huge, unexpected advantage – one that Mary seemed to make up for in skill, but they both knew it wasn’t enough.

“I know,” John said. “And you have every reason to be upset –”

“Damn right, I do,” Mary agreed. “First you lie to me for the sake of the Games –”

“In all fairness, you would’ve done the same –” John tried, growing tired of explaining himself to other people.

“– and now you’re making me look weak,” Mary went on as if John hadn’t spoken, and he understood. He had saved her out of kindness, but the Gamemakers, the sponsors, and the general public would think differently.

“You’re not though, and you know it,” John said. “It looks like you’re doing a hell of a lot better than I am.”

“I almost died,” Mary reminded him, gesturing to the burning food.

“So have I. I was almost a Bloodbath kill – twice,” John informed her. “And I almost died eight more times after that. Probably more than that, actually. In fact – just yesterday –”

“I’m not in the mood for your sob story, John,” she cut him off.

“No, you need to hear this. I had been cornered by one of the tributes from an outlying District – she had a knife to my throat and I honestly thought that was it for me. But right when she was going to kill me someone had shot her down with an arrow.”

“Who was it?” Mary asked.

“I dunno – I’m guessing a career, wanting to kill me, too. But the point is I would’ve been a goner if it wasn’t for them – just like you would’ve if it wasn’t for me.”

Mary mulled over his words.

“So you’re saying we’re all helpless?”

John licked his chapped lips and nodded.

“Yeah, I am. And that we’re pretty lucky, you and I; the same luck that brought me that arrow was the same luck that brought me to you.”

Mary looked into the fire, nodding to herself. They shared the moment of silence, until she decided to speak again.

“So…eight times?” she asked.

“Yeah,” John affirmed.

“How do I know that you’re not just lying about that, too?” she wondered aloud.

John inhaled deeply, letting the air puff out his cheeks, and let it out slowly as he thought of how to win her trust.

“Okay. Do you want the truth? All of it?” he asked. “Because I’ll tell you everything.”

After a few moments of consideration, Mary gestured to the can of beans he had offered her.

“You should really start cooking those if you want to beat the morning fog, since we’ll be here for a while,” she informed him.

“Is that a yes?” John asked, and the right side of Mary’s mouth curled up into a half-smile.

“Yes, it is,” Mary said, lying on her side, propping her head up with her elbow. “Tell me a story, John.”

* * *

Once the lower-half of the house was cleaned (Sherlock imagined the crew didn’t want to climb the stairs to film in his room) Sherlock sent Harry home, and, with two hours still to wait before the Kitty Riley and her crew arrived, ran to Mary Morstan’s house, a few blocks outside of the Seam (which he only knew by the fact that he had seen their house briefly on the broadcast after they were both bombarded with paparazzi and recognized where it was).

When he got there, he took out a piece of paper, unfolded it and read its contents once more:  _To the Morstan family: My brother phoned me this morning – reporters and a camera crew will be arriving at your home at nine o’clock to give an interview about Mary making it to the final six (which will be broadcasted when the Games are down to the final six tributes). I thought you’d want to know. Best of luck, Sherlock Holmes._  With a nod, he folded it back in half and pushed it under the door. Pressing his ear to the crack to make sure he wasn’t waking them, he heard the family – Mary’s mother and father, he deduced – sitting down for breakfast.

He knocked on the door until he heard movement in the house – Mr. Morstan coming to the door – and Sherlock ran.

The entire way home, Sherlock wondered why exactly he was doing this. The reason was almost obvious: Mary’s family had no idea what was going to happen that day – the only way the Watsons knew was because Sherlock was relaying the message to them through their daughter. But  _why_  extend this kindness to a family he didn’t even know with a girl that was against his potential, soon-to-be boyfriend? Perhaps because of the kindness John displayed to her the night before by saving her life after it was forced so suddenly into his hands? Maybe John was causing him to change his heart…

When he reached his house again, he went inside, climbed the stairs and went straight for the bathroom to shower. Once he was dressed in his best clothes – the purple button-down he wore for the reaping and black pants – he sat on the couch and waited for the Capitol’s crew to arrive.


	24. A Second Chance

“What do you want to hear about first?” John asked after the beans were cooked, passing the can to Mary to let her fish out the first scoop with the lid of the can.

“Well, to clear the air: how long have you  _really_  known Mycroft?” Mary suggested, and John nodded in agreement.

“I met Mycroft in person the day he came home from the Capitol after he won the Games,” John said. “I met Sherlock the day after Mycroft had been reaped.”

“Shit,” Mary sighed. “So you knew about the Capitol and the Games and everything?” she asked.

“Not exactly,” John said. “Mycroft disclosed some things to Sherlock and I but nothing about how to actually  _survive_  out here. In that area I’m just as lost as you are. More so, really.”

“Alright,” Mary nodded. “So how did you and Sherlock meet, then?”

“I kind of cornered him in an alley and made him live with me,” he replied, and chuckled at his choice of words. “It sounds a bit better if you keep in mind that we were nine and ten years old at the time and he had no one else other than Mycroft.”

“Right – right, I remember my parents talking – that they were happy that Mycroft was coming back to look after his brother after he won.”

“I think everyone’s parents were pleased,” John agreed.

“Yeah – I’ve heard he’s kind of a…kind of…” she tried to choose her words carefully, but John cut in.

“Weird?” he asked, using the word John thought Mary would’ve used to describe Sherlock after she had described Skylar Dean the same way.

Mary nodded sheepishly.

“Yeah, people would say that. And they do. And he is, but I guess I am too,” John said.

“So let me guess – you two met and you fell in love instantly?”

“Sherlock might’ve, but no, not me. I liked girls, and only girls. It wasn’t until now – until he revealed that he liked me – did I realize that…yeah, I like Sherlock like that, too,” John replied with a shrug.

“So you made Sherlock live with you while he had no one else out of the goodness of your ten-year-old heart, and somewhere between the time you were ten and now Sherlock fell in love with you and announced that it to the world just before you were sent off to die, and the rest is history?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s about right,” John agreed, and Mary chuckled. “What?”

“You two are so different. I’ve heard about him – my best friend, Jamie? She had a crush on him for about a year and a half until he decided to turn around and tell her he already knew that she liked him and was in no way interested, so she should piss off. He never would’ve offered you a place to stay if your situations were reversed.”

“Trust me, it took a lot of convincing on my part for him to even listen to me. But he somehow did listen to me, and I became his first friend.”

“Does he always do that thing he did to Jamie?” Mary asked. “Where he like…I don’t know how to explain it –”

“He calls it deducing, and yeah – he never really stops deducing me, really…and I don’t want him to,” John said. “I think it’s brilliant – how smart he is.”

“And he’s probably astonished about how much you can care about people,” Mary guessed.

“Probably,” John agreed. “Mycroft’s called us the head and the heart before…” John trailed off, in thought.

“Cute,” Mary said with a chuckle.

“…Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice – denying him the chance to volunteer and go through all of this for me.”

“Certainly would’ve made things a lot easier for everyone else when it comes to getting sponsors,” Mary said nonchalantly. “We wouldn’t have to compete with a love story.”

“No, you still would; I saw Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran kissing the other day.”

“You’re kidding?” Mary asked, and John shook his head. “Holy shit.”

“And Irene Adler and Kate Halstead kissed in the training center, but Kate’s dead now, so…and there was Philip Anderson and Sally Donovan too, before yesterday.”

“Jesus Christ that’s like a whole quarter of us,” Mary calculated.

“I think Greg Lestrade had a thing for Molly Hooper, too, now that I think about it…” John added.

“Holy fuck,” Mary said.

“So you would’ve had to deal with all of them, but also Sherlock’s intelligence,” John said.

“So either way I’m not going to win?” Mary asked, dejected.

“You’ve still got a chance,” John tried to assure her.

“I’m starting to see why you’re called the heart.” 

* * *

Sherlock stared at the clock in his sitting room, and just as the second hand passed over the twelve and 8:59 turned to 9:00, there was a knock on Sherlock’s door. He stood up and opened it, finding himself face-to-face with Kitty Riley – the woman he had bitten when she had interviewed him eight years ago.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she said coolly, extending her hand for him to shake. “It’s a pleasure to see you, again.” She smiled, but her kind and polite demeanor was easily transparent to Sherlock’s eyes: he had almost cost Kitty her career eight years ago, and now she was here for revenge.

Sherlock smiled politely back at her as he shook her hand.

“Ms. Riley; likewise. Come in, please,” he invited, and Kitty, along with her personal assistant, three camera people (each with their own camera), the boom microphone operator, the regular microphone operators, three make-up attendants, and four people to just to carry a fancy-looking chair (so she wouldn’t have to stoop down as far as to sit on a piece of furniture from District 12) all filed into Sherlock’s house.

And suddenly, it was like Sherlock was nine years old again. While two of the make-up artists tended to Sherlock’s face, making him somewhat presentable to the Capitol, and the last perfected Kitty Riley’s, the rest of the crew turned his sitting room into a studio fit for the interview. The three cameras were set up around them – one just behind Sherlock and one just behind Riley, letting the audience get a full view of their faces from over the other’s shoulder at all times. The third camera settled between them, giving the audience another view of the interview. The boom operator stood behind the middle camera, and the mic was positioned between them. The two other microphone operators fixed a mic to the collar of Kitty’s dress and another to Sherlock’s shirt.

When he was younger, Sherlock fought against the crew even touching him, calling them monsters and cowards every time they tried. Needless to say, the interview was an absolute disaster – the only thing Kitty could get out of him was that he missed Mycroft, and wanted him to come back desperately. Kitty tried to go in that direction, but soon enough, Sherlock saying it turned into Sherlock demanding they bring him back. Kitty then decided to end the interview, and approached Sherlock to try and shake his hand or touch his shoulder or muss up his hair or something – Sherlock would never know what she had in mind. The camera was still rolling when his teeth found her hand and he bit down on it, and while she was screaming at him for what he had done, he was screaming back, shooing everyone out while calling them names and telling Kitty Riley specifically how much she repelled him.

Sherlock had then stayed in his home, hiding under his mother’s bed, until John and his mother found their way inside. Mrs. Watson dealt with the fuming reporters outside, and John coaxed Sherlock out of hiding inside. After John’s mother answered all the questions she felt comfortable with and sent the interview crew back to the Capitol, she entered the Holmes’ one-room home to find little Sherlock Holmes, gripping tightly onto her son in a hug that had never seemed so desperate, sobbing into his shoulder.

Surprisingly, something about Sherlock’s interview touched a single sponsor, sending Mycroft a warm meal in the snowy Arena, attaching a note that informed him that Sherlock was safe.

Sherlock wasn’t nine anymore – he couldn’t be rude and get away with it. He had to do what he had to in order to make himself look like he grew into a somewhat decent person – for John. Even if Kitty Riley didn’t feel like he deserved a second chance to do so.

He thought this while watching Riley take some notecards (with the assumed questions written on them) that her personal assistant was handing to her.

“There’s a lot here; maybe we can get through all the questions, this time?” Kitty asked, smiling pleasantly at Sherlock.

“Let’s leave the past behind us for the next hour, shall we?” Sherlock suggested, smiling politely back at her slightly taken-aback face, and said nothing more as the cameras began to roll, marking the start of the interview.

Riley tore her eyes from Sherlock and looked at the camera placed between them.

“Camera one focus,” the cameraman at the camera between them said. “Good,” he said after a moment; obviously the picture quality had met his standards. The two other cameramen repeated the phrase – only the camera pointed at Sherlock (camera three) had enough difficulty to repeat the phrase. Once he got whatever was wrong fixed, the boom operator spoke.

“Boom mic: sound check one-two-three,” he said, and then Kitty repeated the count into her mic, speaking conversationally. It was then Sherlock felt everyone’s eyes on him. He was obviously quite famous for what he had done when he was nine.

“Sherlock mic: sound check one-two-three,” he said, his eyes fixed on Kitty Riley.

“Good,” the boom operator said, and Kitty Riley smiled at Sherlock.

“We’re off to a great start,” Kitty said, and Sherlock nodded. “Now, let’s see about the actual interview.”

It was then Riley’s personal assistant explained to Sherlock what he already knew: what would be recorded that day would only be used if John made it to the final six. Thus, everyone would be acting like John had made it that far, and that meant Sherlock should, as well. She asked Sherlock if he understood, as if he was a child, and Sherlock nodded.

“Can we just get on with this?” he asked, and in response, Kitty addressed the camera, beaming with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes: the boy who watched his brother leave for the Games and was lucky enough to see him return and, who is now, as a young adult, watching his best friend in our Arena, anxiously waiting for his return. Knowing that he may never see his best friend again, he decided that revealing that he was in love with him was better late than never and impressed the Capitol, and they all agree that John Watson has something worth sponsoring: a love story. John Watson has reached the final six, and I am here with Sherlock Holmes for his thoughts on John’s quite peculiar predicament.” She turned to Sherlock. Their eyes met, and Riley’s eyes sparkled with the thought that revenge was this close to her grip, and Sherlock stared innocently back at her. “Let’s begin.”

* * *

“So who’s left?” Mary asked as she and John walked through the woods a few hours later. “I was kind of dying when the death toll went off.”

“Erm…” John began, thinking. “Four people died last night, I know that much. There’s Moriarty’s gang, minus Kate…” he said, counting off on his fingers. “I think there’s a couple of us still out there besides Molly Hooper –”

“Molly Hooper? You mean that little girl from Eight?”

“Yeah, she’s still with us.”

“Jesus Christ,” Mary murmured. “Who else?” she asked, louder.

“I think that just leaves you and me.”

“So that makes about eight or nine of us still among the living.” Mary figured, and John was taken aback by how small of a number that was, considering there was twenty-four of them to start out. He was hit again by the fact that one of them had to die, and there was a good chance neither of them would make it out alive.

“This is insane,” he murmured.

“This is the Hunger Games,” Mary said.

“Yeah,” John agreed, running his hand through his hair.

Mary glanced at him.

“Did you know I kind of fought Sebastian Moran during the Bloodbath?” she asked, sounding like she was trying to lighten the mood.

“What?” John asked, looking at her.

“During the Bloodbath, I scratched Moran’s face with my spear and hit him with the bag of apples,” she informed John, smirking to herself. “And stomped on his foot.”

“No way,” John said, finding himself smiling in disbelief. “You didn’t.”

“I did,” Mary replied.

“He’s gonna kill you, you know.”

“Not if I kill him first.” They walked in silence for a little while, until she decided to speak again. “We’re in the final ten…how long has it been since  _that_  happened? District Twelve in the final ten?”

John thought back to the broadcasts he had watched – back when he could breathe somewhat easily.

“It’s been a few years, I imagine.”

“Shit – what if we won this?” she wondered aloud.

“I’d rather not –” John began, but she cut him off.

“No, no, no – just for a minute, don’t put it into terms of you and me. Imagine if  _District Twelve_  wins. We’ve only got one victor back home – we deserve it more than anyone out here, I think –”

Before she could continue, John grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face him.

“Mary. I don’t want to get our hopes up. We’ve still got Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran and Irene Alder to face. And they’re…they’re something else. Once they’re out of the way I’ll start counting my eggs, but not yet.”

Mary slumped her shoulders, practically wilting before him, as if the weight of the Games had suddenly sat itself upon her.

“Right.”

“I’m sorry, Mary –” John tried, wishing he could say something more, something to take this all away from the both of them –

“Let’s…just keep walking.”


	25. The Border

When the interview was finally over, Riley’s assistant asked Sherlock to write a letter to John to be sent to him as a sponsor gift or in some other way in the Games. Sherlock wanted to argue that sponsor gifts should be used for emergencies, but decided not to begin that argument after dodging all of the quips Riley had said to him. He wrote the most heartfelt thing he could think of, knowing that it would be read and reread and approved by the Capitol before it was sent in. They were looking for something the audience would find sweet, not something that could actually assist John in the Arena.

Once Sherlock was finished writing, the assistant took the letter. She assured Sherlock that he would soon see the interview on the broadcast, as long as John stayed alive, and Sherlock found himself nodding to her words. After that, they all left, leaving Sherlock alone in the house that he in no way earned, and Sherlock sat in the chair and put his head in his hands.

He had done it; he survived the interview.

But John had a lot more to survive.

Moments later, there was a knock on the door. As if in a dream, Sherlock answered the door and found Harry standing on his porch in the blue dress she wore for the reaping and her hair in a bow.

“Let me just say that if anything we’ll get about five shitty seconds of screen time,” Harry began, striding into the house, “because mom started crying and I know you better than to – whoa, are you okay?” she asked, turning around and noticing Sherlock’s suddenly downcast demeanor.

“Yes, fine,” Sherlock exhaled. “Tired; that’s all.”

“Yeah – they think they can just fuckin’ waltz into your house and ask you invasive questions and –” she began, as Sherlock followed her into the kitchen.

“Are  _you_  okay?” Sherlock interrupted, leaning against the door frame. Harry sat on the table, stalling before giving her answer.

“John’s alive, so…yeah. Of course I am,” she replied, and then she paused for a moment. “How did your interview go?” she asked.

“Well, despite a lot of variables, quite well, actually,” Sherlock replied.

“Yeah, I hear you. It was really weird, talking about him to the people who basically sent him in there. Not to mention you were probably having flashbacks to Mycroft’s interview –”

“Yes, and a little bit more than I needed, seeing as I got the same interviewer as I did eight years ago.”

Harry made a face.

“Harsh,” she said, and then thought about it for a second more. “Wait, didn’t you bite her?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, and Harry’s lips curled upwards.

“Nice.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock chuckled.

“So how pissed was she?”

“She tried to potentially sabotage the interview so...about that pissed,” Sherlock said.

There was a moment of silence as the two took in his words. Sherlock thought at first that Harry was going to question how Kitty Riley sabotaged him, but that wasn’t what came out of her mouth.

“I wish I could’ve hurt them,” she mumbled. “For hurting John. And Mycroft. And everyone.”

“Me too,” Sherlock agreed. He glanced at the broadcast projection that had been playing silently since Kitty Riley and her crew left. “Let’s…see how John’s doing.”

* * *

“What the hell is this?” John asked, looking over a cliff edge at the ground that seemed hundreds of meters below him and Mary.

“The Arena border. The catacombs are under this,” Mary replied.

“Do you think people have…you know…jumped?” John asked.

“Are you suggesting –”

“No – no. I just – someone died and neither of know how so maybe –”

“Either way, it’s impossible. Watch this,” Mary said, picking up a stone from the edge and tossing it over. John watched it drop, and just before it hit the ground, it rose up, above their heads, and landed on the ground at their feet once more.

“Jesus,” John murmured. “Can’t even kill yourself here, can you?”

“I guess not,” Mary shrugged. “Come on, we’re going over here,” she gestured over to the pond that the river ran from. On the edge there was a strip of land between the edge of the pond and the land itself, just long enough for them to walk on it single-file.

“You think we can make that?” John asked.

“Yeah – I’ve done it before. And think of it this way: if you fall, you’ll end up in the water no matter which way you go.”

“Funny,” John smirked. “Really funny.”

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” Mary said, beginning her journey on the small strip of land.

With just a moment’s hesitation, John followed. As they walked in silence, John looked out into the land around them – the land they were not allowed to touch. He felt a pull inside of him; not one to jump, but rather to just explore  _that_  land. It was the pull of wanting everything he couldn’t have, something Sherlock (a person with no sense of boundaries whatsoever) had probably directly given him over the years.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mary asked suddenly, causing John to tear his eyes away from the scenery and look at the side of her head as she looked out with him. “It reminds me of home.”

Maybe that’s what it was pulling at John; the desire to just be in a forest without having to fear for his life – to be somewhere like home.

“Yeah, it’s nice,” John agreed, and again they walked in silence, until they reached the end of the bridge.

“Here we are,” she said, stepping onto the land at the other side of the pond, and John followed suit, happy to be on more than just two feet’s width of land. “Would it be weird if I said I missed them?” she asked, after another moment’s silence.

“Sorry?” John asked.

“My family,” she said quietly. “My friends.”

“Yeah, I do too.”

Another silence.

“One of us has to win this, John,” Mary said.

“Yeah, we do.”

* * *

“She’s going to kill him,” Harry guessed, breathless as they stared at the screen.

“No,” Sherlock murmured. “She likes him too much,” he said, and he couldn’t control the tone of jealousy as it came out.

“You okay over there?” Harry asked, and Sherlock didn’t have to look at her to know the giddy smile that was plastered onto her face.

“Fine.”

It was then the camera cut to a person no one expected to make it this far: Molly Hooper, from District 8. She was doing what John, Greg Lestrade, and the others had taught her: she sat in a tree, clutching John’s knife to her chest.

“You know, little Molly Hooper here’s become quite the underdog this year, don’t you think?” Caesar Flickerman asked the audience and Claudius Templesmith.

“She certainly has, Caesar; I don’t think anyone thought she’d make it to the final eight, but here she is.”

“Here she is, indeed. What seems to be her strategy, Claudius?”

“Ah, running. And, uh, hiding. Running and hiding, it seems.”

“Interesting, but what’s even more interesting is who’s coming to see her...”

The map in the corner enlarged, and a number 1 was approaching Molly’s 8.

“Irene?” Harry guessed. “Or Moriarty?” The map went away, and revealed Jim Moriarty walking into the clearing. “Ah yes, everyone’s favorite motherfucker,” she mumbled, crossing her arms.

“Let’s break the ice, shall we?” Caesar asked.

“Yes, I think we should,” Claudius agreed, and before anyone had time to even think about what that could mean for Molly, the branch she was sitting on snapped, and she fell  onto the ground, right at Moriarty’s feet.

He looked down at her.

“Well, hello,” he greeted her with a grin. In response, she squealed, breaking into a crab walk until her back was up against the trunk of the tree. “Molly, isn’t it?” he asked, as if she wasn't having a panic attack. Her hands shook as she pointed the knife towards him, hilt still pressed up against her chest. “I’m Jim.”

Sherlock wanted to vomit. She was  _twelve_.

“I’m glad I found you before he did,” Jim continued.

“Wh-who?” Molly asked. “Before who did?”

Jim Moriarty crouched down, so he was at her level. As if she was a child in school.

“Why, John Watson, of course.”

Sherlock nearly stopped breathing.

 _Who?! Where the fuck was he going with_ this _?!_

“What the fuck,” Harry breathed.

“John?” Molly repeated.

“He came out of nowhere; he’s been killing everyone,” Moriarty explained. “The kids from District Ten, the boy from District Six –”

“Greg?” Molly corrected him anxiously.

“Yes, that’s the one.”

For once, both Sherlock and Harry were at a complete loss for words. They simply stared at Molly Hooper as she processed the new information. After what seemed like an eternity, she spoke:

“...No. Not John; he wouldn’t... I saw him; he helped me. He’s a good person.”

“He’s a monster, Molly,” Moriarty assured her.

“...How do you know?” she asked, suspicious.

“I saw it myself – he almost killed  _me_.”

“BullSHIT!” Harry yelled, making Sherlock jump.

“Look, I’ve got a few people gathered up; we look out for each other, and if we run into John Watson we’re going to take him down. You’re welcome to join us – we can protect you. And we have food. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“He can’t do that,” Harry said through gritted teeth. She looked at Sherlock, her eyes pleading. “Fucking hell – he can’t do that!”

Sherlock glanced at her, and then stared back at the screen.

“Yes he can,” he whispered. “There are no rules in that Arena.”

Molly lowered her weapon.

“You’ll protect me?” she asked.

“Of course,” Moriarty promised.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Harry groaned.

“She’s desperate,” Sherlock said. “She wants to live and she thinks this is what will help her.”

“But he’s – he’s...” Harry covered her face as Sherlock watched little Molly Hooper agree to ally herself with Moriarty and the careers. “I can’t even think of a word. Who would  _do_  this? She’s only twelve!”

“Someone who wants to win, obviously. And doesn’t care about anything in his way. Poor Molly – he’s obviously lying about protecting her, but what’s he going to be keeping her alive for?” Sherlock asked as the attention switched from Molly and Moriarty to seeing how Henry Knight from District Eight was doing. “Whatever’s going on John needs to find a way out of it before –” he stopped as Harry spoke.

“Did I ever tell you about my first reaping ceremony?”

Sherlock thought back – when Harry was twelve, he would've been fourteen, and John would’ve turned fifteen not too long ago. He remembered John’s anxiety the entire morning, fearing not for himself but for his sister, and he remembered shooting up with a little more Morphling than he would’ve on any other reaping day, but the rest of the day’s details were fuzzy.

“No, you didn’t,” Sherlock replied, and Harry breathed a shaky breath before she continued.

“The girl who sat in front of me in class was reaped,” she revealed. “Her name was Anissa Travers. I didn’t know her very well, in fact I...I had a crush on her, a little one – a normal one, not like how bad you’ve got it for John, and we had talked a few times and... She was twelve. That’s why I bring this up – she was twelve, and I had to watch her die. And I had to go to class the next September and look at the back of someone else’s head because it wasn’t her anymore – she was gone –” she cut herself off, wiping tears off of her face, and it was then Sherlock realized that the Hunger Games weren’t all about Mycroft and John. Twenty-three people died every year, and each of those people had families and friends and people like Harry who sat behind them in class or admired them from afar –

And Molly Hooper was twelve years old and she was most definitely going to die, just like Anissa did – neither of them ever reaching the age of thirteen –

“Harry...” Sherlock murmured, unsure what to say or what to do, but before he could figure it out Harry rested her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t know how much longer I can watch this, Sherlock,” she whispered. “Do you really think John could win?”

“Once Moriarty’s off the board, yes. But until then...I don’t know.”

* * *

That night, the Panem anthem played across the Arena, but no faces flashed through the sky; only the Capitol’s seal shone with the stars.

“Nobody died today,” John noted quietly to Mary.

“That just means the Capitol will be itching for one tomorrow. Let’s get some sleep; we’ll have a long day ahead of us if they decide to step in.” John continued to stare up at the stars as Mary rolled over and tried to sleep. “...John?” she asked, after a few moments.

“Yeah?”

“How long have we been here?” she asked, and it took John a moment to think about it. It had felt like an eternity, yet it seemed like just yesterday he met with Mycroft in the catacombs before being sent off. It was funny how time worked like that – funny, and terrifying.

John closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, and answered Mary’s question.

“Too damn long.”


	26. The Mutts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~WALL OF TEXT TIME~  
> Hi, everyone!  
> Quick life update: things are going pretty good, right now. I was hired at a job that I honestly love, the pay's pretty good (I've been buying a lot of books with it and I'm gonna even be able to buy new shoes and other clothes that I need because they're falling apart). My mental health's been good and I'm actually happy and I'm not as terrified of the future as I used to be. And also the Hungerlock sequel (Constantly) is reaching its climax on my end, just as Sentiment is here. Then I'll be able to work on my own original stuff, touching back in this universe and in He's Eating Them's universe, too, when I get inspired to.  
> Idk why I'm like saying all of this I just wanted to give you guys an update, because like a lot of you commenting have been around since the beginning and I really like talking back and forth with you guys, and back in the summertime when my mental health and life was pretty damn bad one of you specifically came to me when I had missed a few updates and asked if I was okay and the time from Mid-October to Mid-January was pretty bad too for personal reasons and I'm just really thankful for you guys for sticking around and I'm really proud of myself for getting my shit together so I thought maybe you'd want to know I dunno.  
> Anyways I hope you're all doing well and the next chapter will be up April 9th!  
> Love, Sara <3

The sound of dogs barking invaded John’s dreams. The twin boys down the street from him had a dog. The mutt enjoyed chasing after every other smaller animal in the District; it didn’t matter if it was a cat or a rat or a squirrel or a bird – the damned thing thought he was at the top of the food chain and strived to make sure everyone knew it. He wondered what he was barking at now, and smiled to himself. He could feel the warm sun on his face – shining in through his bedroom window. It’s daytime.  _Probably should get up, now; there’s no way I can go back to sleep with the noise_ , he thought.

He was about to open his eyes and suffer the crushing disappointment of reality on his own, but someone started to shake him awake – Mary Morstan.

“John – John get up we have to go right now –” she spoke quickly, panicked, making the disappointment even more painful. He wasn’t home at all. This was the Hunger Games, and he was in trouble.

“What –?” John asked as he sat up, still suffering from the shock of waking up in the middle of the hell he was in.

“We gotta go!” she cried, grabbing him by his shirt and pulling him up into a standing position.

It was then he heard barking again – he hadn’t imagined the barking. There were dogs in the Arena – no, mutts – and they were probably – no, definitely – coming for them.

* * *

The broadcast was truly torturing Sherlock and Harry today. They didn’t care about how Molly and Moriarty hid in empty boxes while Sebastian and Irene tried to fight the mutts from the top of the Cornucopia. They didn’t care that Soo Lin Yao had managed to shoot one in the eye with an arrow and was surprised that it carried on like nothing had happened. They wanted to see how John was doing.

They  _needed_  to see how John was doing.

The broadcast followed the mutts as the Gamemakers set them upon the tributes, only changing their path as a new tribute appeared. The mutts struck the Arena in the late morning, starting with the careers. Soo Lin had distracted them from the careers, but she was headed quickly toward John and Mary.

“No no no turn the fuck around!” Harry yelled at the screen.

“They’d find a way to get to them; you know that,” Sherlock reminded her. They would always find a way to hurt John.

John and Mary – stupid John and Mary in their own stupid ways – had decided to sleep on the ground the night before, and had slept in later than they would normally. Sherlock wanted to blame the Gamemakers for this, but didn’t know how.

Mary woke up from the sound of the mutts barking, and began to shake John awake.

“We gotta go!” Mary shouted as she pulled John up and shoved his bag into his chest. She grabbed her own bag and her spear in one hand and John’s wrist in the other, and together they ran through the forest, away from the mutts who were still running in their direction, somewhat widening the gap between them.

The three dogs – Redbeards, Seneca Crane named them – were bigger than the tributes themselves, with paws the size of dinner plates, and muzzles and mouths stained red with blood that belonged to no one but was used to scare the tributes, hence the name. Their teeth were not razor sharp, no; they were sharp enough to tear through skin but dull enough to make it painful. The mutts themselves were industrial strength, tearing down the smaller trees in their way as they ran. They could not expire; they did not get tired. The only way a tribute could avoid them was to hopefully distract them long enough to run away. But these mutts would not be distracted by just anything – if the tributes had meat on them it wouldn’t work – the dogs were engineered only to crave human flesh.

Sherlock had calculated two ways to avoid them: hide in a small enough space (like the crevice between the stones John had slept in his first night in the Arena), or climb a tall enough, strong enough tree, and even then he wasn’t sure if the mutts would just give up on them like that. If the Gamemakers chose to keep them in the Arena, they may starve any hiding tributes out if they wouldn’t leave them alone.

It wasn’t long before the mutts caught up with John and Mary, and two of them broke from the group for them.

* * *

“What do we do?!” Mary asked as they sprinted through the forest.

John thought fast. These weren’t regular dogs, who only chased things that ran from them; these dogs were sent by the Gamemakers – _created_ by the Gamemakers, mutated into mutts just like many creatures had been before – and they would stop at nothing until they were dead. Glancing back, he knew there was no way to outrun them – they were gaining too fast. He knew what he could do – he could do what he had been doing every time he ran into an issue in the Arena – but would it work with these monsters?

John searched the skies for a tall enough tree.

“There!” he shouted upon finding it, and steered Mary toward it.

It felt like one of those stupid dreams John would have as a kid, the ones back when he feared the reality he didn’t know he was going to face. He felt as if he was running for his life but still moving too slowly. He practically shoved Mary up the tree before him when they finally reached it and followed her closely, climbing as fast as they could until –

There was a growl, and then a sharp pain in John’s left ankle – not just a sharp pain, but a ripping pain – he could feel his skin and muscles being torn apart within his own leg. John grasped onto the branch before him as tightly as he could and looked down to find his foot – his  _entire foot_  – was in one of the mutts mouths.

“JOHN!” Mary screeched.

* * *

“NO!” Harry screamed, and Sherlock watched in silence, mouth agape.

The mutt shook his head, trying to get John to break his grip from the branch he was hanging from. With his free leg, John tried kicking the mutt’s muzzle, but that just seemed to agitate it more.

* * *

Gritting his teeth in pain, John looked up to find Mary watching him, eyes wide. If he could just pull himself up, he would be able to reach her. He kicked his other leg in front of him until it found a new branch, and John pulled himself up so he was standing on the branch. The mutt’s jaw was locked on John’s leg – he could feel the mutt’s teeth scraping at his bone through the pain – and if he held on much longer he’d break John’s leg and completely immobilize him in a place where being able to run away was crucial, or pull him down and rip his entire body apart.

He looked up again, and saw that Mary was close enough – within arm’s reach if they both tried.

“MARY!” John called, reaching up to her as he hooked his arm around the branch. The dog continued to pull, and Mary continued to stare at him. What the fuck was she waiting for?!  _“MARY!”_

As if she was being woken up from a trance, she reached down and they grabbed each other’s wrists.

* * *

The Redbeard and Mary played tug-of-war with John’s body, and John cried out with effort as he tried to break free from the mutt’s clutches, going back to kick his muzzle.

After a few failed attempts, John then seemed to remember he had a knife, and threw his last knife into the mutt’s eye, to match the arrow sticking out of his other one. It was only then, by some miracle, the mutt let go. Finally free, John and Mary scrambled away, making sure they were out of the mutts’ reach.

The moment they were safely out of harm’s way, a cannon burst, and the third mutt (from somewhere not too far away) howled. There was the kill they were waiting for.

John and Mary sat in the tree, as holding their breaths to keep from alerting the mutts of their presence as they ignored them. The mutt that could see started to run in the direction of the howl, and the newly-blinded mutt followed behind him as quickly as a blind mutt could. John and Mary sat in silence, watching the mutts run off, and stayed there after the mutts were out of sight.

It seemed like it took forever for the world to start moving again.

John was the first to speak.

“Thank you,” he said, looking at Mary.

“Yeah. How’s your leg?” she asked.

John looked down at his bleeding ankle. The pain was almost numbing to him; all he could feel was his leg pulsing, like his heart had relocated.

“Pretty bad. I’ve got stuff in my bag, though; could you get it out?” he asked, turning so she could fish in his bag for him. As he felt Mary going through his belongings, John chuckled to himself. “You know, for a minute there...you had me scared. For a minute there...I didn’t think you were going to help me,” he said as nonchalantly as he could manage. He felt the medical kit being pulled out, and he turned back to face her. She placed the box in his hands, avoiding his eyes.

“Neither did I,” she admitted quietly. She let it sink in for a moment, and then looked up at him. “John....the Games are doing something to me. I don’t like it. I think we should...” she paused, looking away, as if searching the trees around them for what she wanted to say. “...I don’t think we should do this anymore – this alliance. I don’t want it to just be you and me,” she whispered, and John understood.

“Okay,” he agreed, and she looked at him. “Yeah, alright.”

She glanced down at his injured leg.

“I’ll stay here and help you wrap up your ankle, but tomorrow we have to go our separate ways.”

“Sounds good,” John nodded.

They both avoided looking at the other’s faces.

“Okay,” Mary whispered, and they sat for a few moments longer in silence, evaluating themselves and each other and the situation they’d got themselves into and those damn fucking mutts... “Let me see your leg,” Mary said out of nowhere, and John lifted his leg for her to see.

She gently took it in her hands and rested it on her lap, getting his blood on her hands and clothes. Without a word, John handed her the first ointment he picked up that said anything about animal bites. As she put the stinging ointment on his wound he searched the medical kit, but it did not contain any sort of needles or threads for stitches, so he handed her the elastic bandage and she went to work wrapping up his leg.

* * *

After John and Mary were safe in the tree and out of the mutts’ reach, the broadcast cut to the mutt that hadn’t chased after them, just to watch it attack and kill Henry Knight. Harry and Sherlock were now staring at Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith back at the Capitol. On the screen behind them held the faces of all of the remaining tributes: Jim Moriarty, Irene Adler, Sebastian Moran, Soo Lin Yao, Molly Hooper, Mary Morstan, and John Watson.

That was the final seven. And tomorrow, if not sooner, there would be a final six.

Sherlock had not mentioned his interview with Kitty Riley since yesterday. Harry had not asked. But tomorrow, everyone would know. He needed to keep Harry from conversing with him about it – he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Hey, Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Could we watch tomorrow with your parents?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, sure. Of course. You okay?” she asked, leaning forward, trying to read his expression.

“Yeah, fine.”

“You sure?” Harry asked.

As Flickerman and Templesmith talked about who  _they_  imagined had the potential to win, Sherlock stared at the faces behind them. He glanced between all of them, but paused to look at Moriarty and John more than the others. Moriarty needed to die, and John needed to live. And at this point, especially considering John’s newest injury, he had no idea who would come out in the end, which was entirely new to him. He wasn’t used to not knowing. To be completely honest with himself, he was scared. But he couldn’t let Harry know that.

“I’m sure.” There was a moment of silence between them. “Are  _you_  okay?” he asked, and she shook her head.

“John almost died.”

“But he didn’t, Harry, and that’s what matters. As long as he comes back everything will be fine.”

“That’s just it, Sherlock. I’m afraid he won’t come back.”

* * *

Mary had strapped John to the limb he was sitting on, and she strapped herself into the next nearest one to sleep. John could not sleep; his mind was too active and the pain in his leg was too agonizing for him to sleep, even with the ointment.

Mary had almost let John die. He imagined how that thought process could have gone, thinking about just how easy it would be to let him be killed by the mutts. And it would’ve been easy – it would’ve been so incredibly easy to just have let him die. Then he would’ve been out of her way, and she wouldn’t have had to worry about him winning. But she didn’t. In fact, she bandaged his leg for him. He knew that the Games changed people, but never like this. He had no idea it had the ability to make the tributes to think of things they never would’ve before they entered the Arena.

Did Mycroft ever had thoughts like these – like hers? The terrible ones that she didn’t even know she had until she came face to face with them? Did they carried on outside of the Arena? Would  _he_ start thinking like this? He could only hope that he wouldn’t – all of his kills had been accidents so far; maybe he’d manage to come out of it without having these thoughts. Maybe he could retain who he was inside.

He hoped he could.


	27. Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WALL OF TEXT TIME  
> So the day marking three years since I first started this fic was April 4th, so Happy Third Year Anniversary! I'm really proud of myself for getting this far and I'm really thankful for everyone who's read this fic along the way. ^^  
> Fun fact: so this last Thursday I almost got into a car accident with my mom on the way home from work (some guy sped past us on the highway, I yelled "HE'S GONNA DIE" as he got in front of us, and then he hydroplaned into the guard rail and then swerved across the highway and up onto a hill - the guy literally lost a tire and if I hadn't noticed he had turned in towards the guard rail we would've crashed right into him and probably got really hurt or died or something. And when I got home I was like "...oh my god. I would've been SO CLOSE to completing the Hungerlock Fics (I'm at the climax of Constantly and so I've got about another 50 pages left at least) and I almost DIED in like TWO SECONDS and had that RIPPED away from me. AND THE READERS WOULD NEVER KNOW THE END." So basically congratulations I thought about you guys after I almost died. This fic is my legacy, apparently. XD But I told my best friend that if I ever do end up dying before Sentiment and/or Constantly is completed and posted in entirety to just post everything I have and leave it at that. So yeah. Also I learned that life is super fragile and it can be taken from you at any moment in just a second and sometimes you don't die at just the right time - sometimes you die halfway through something really important and it sucks. (Hannibal fans such as myself could translate this as you're either a Will Graham (assuming he died in the last episode) or a Beverly Katz.) So just. I know it's super hard and super lame to say this because I've suffered from depression and had suicidal thoughts and shit and I know what it's like but really, truly be thankful that you're here, because sometimes you see a car hydroplaning and losing its shit on the highway and you almost crash into it but you don't and so you think to yourself, "I had definitely wanted to die up until now, but now that I see this happening in front of me, and now that I almost died myself, I don't want to anymore." (Also I don't think the guy died because I can't find anything about his crash on the news SO I THINK HE'S FINE AND THAT'S GOOD.)  
> So yeah enjoy the chapter!! :D

John Watson and Mary Morstan split up at dawn. They woke up and slowly maneuvered John down from the tree and made sure he could walk. He now had a heavy limp, causing pain with every step, but he could manage – and even if he couldn’t manage, he would have to. Not to mention the fact that something deep inside of him wanted to get away from Mary Morstan as quickly as he could.

But they still found themselves standing in front of each other, unsure of how to say goodbye, knowing that they would never see each other again, after this. Either one of them would die, or both of them would. After a few moments of awkward silence, Mary spoke.

“I don’t mean this as a threat or anything, but if you die I’ll try to win for you. For District Twelve, I mean. We deserve it.”

“We do,” John agreed.

“Would you do me a favor and do the same for me? If it comes to it?” she asked.

“Of course,” he promised.

Then, knowing of no other way for them to say goodbye, they shook hands, turned around, and walked in different directions.

And, just like that, John was on his own again.

* * *

Sherlock woke up early the next morning, and went to the Watson’s house just as the broadcast was beginning. He heard Caesar Flickerman going over the past day’s events as he knocked on the door; the mutts were gone, but Henry Knight had died and John’s leg was injured. Also, early in the morning, John and Mary had split up.

“Hello, Sherlock –” Mr. Watson started before Sherlock cut in.

“What was that? What did Caesar say? Hello, by the way,” he said as he walked into the Watson home.

“Mary and John split up,” Harry repeated from her place on the sofa, sounding as surprised as Sherlock was.

“I wonder what sparked that,” Mrs. Watson wondered. “Hello, Sherlock, dear, how are you?”

“Probably something that was deemed ‘too emotionally  _real’_  by the Capitol. I’m doing fine, Mrs. Watson, how’re you?” he asked as he sat down next to Harry.

“As well as I can be,” she replied with a sigh, and Sherlock nodded, lips pursed.

“It’s the final seven, Mom; no one from District Twelve has made it this far in forever,” Harry informed her, trying to lighten her mood.

“I just want him home,” she sighed.

“We all do,” Sherlock said.

The broadcast then shifted to check in with everyone. The careers and Molly were preparing to go on a scouting mission (scouting for what, Sherlock had no idea; they had everything they needed back at Camp aside from clean water). Soo Lin was remaining camped out in the trees, only coming down when she desperately needed to or when the Capitol chased her out. This had been her strategy all along, and it was working. Mary was hunting for food. And then, finally, the cameras went to John.

* * *

John walked alone, with no direction. As much as he knew it was bad for him and as much as he didn’t want to admit it after what happened yesterday, he had enjoyed the company of Mary, and even Greg and Philip and Sally before her. He didn’t want to be alone; he felt more vulnerable now that he was by himself. He looked around, taking nothing in, until he did.

There was a glint of something – John could see it through the trees. Metal, probably – was he back at the Cornucopia? Something in his gut said no, and he decided to step toward whatever was shining in the distance. He pulled a few branches out of his path, and then he could see it clearly: water.

John now felt the dryness in his mouth more than he ever had before. He had drank the last of his water the night of the muttation incident, up in the tree with Mary. With only a moment’s hesitation, he gave himself that last push to awkwardly run to the water to drink to his heart’s content. He ran the last two hundred feet it took to get there and burst unabashedly into the clearing. There was a small pond, unattached to the river that he had crossed some days before. The sun was shining onto the water, and it glittered and moved with the wind, making the thirst he felt even worse. He swung his pack off his shoulder, about to retrieve the canteen from within, when he heard a voice, making him jump.

“D-Don’t move.”

He nearly dropped his pack in surprise as he looked around for the source, and there, standing at the edge of the water was Molly Hooper, pointing her knife – the very one John had given her – at him. Her face contorted between wide-eyed panic and angrily glaring him down, causing her to just look hurt and confused as she gritted her teeth at him.

“Molly –” he started, taking a step towards her.

“Don’t move!” Molly repeated, stronger this time, holding her knife higher. “Drop your stuff,” she ordered, and John complied, dropping his bag to the ground and holding his hands up to show her they were empty. “All of it.”

“I don’t have a weapon,” he informed her.

“Really?” she asked. He looked her over – she was looking much better than when he had last seen her, cleaner and more confident, somehow older and more mature than she was a few days ago. She had a pack of her own and two empty gallon jugs at her feet.

“Really. I’ve got nothing, honest.”

There was a moment as Molly mulled that over.

“I know what you did. To Greg and the others,” she announced. John met her eyes and cocked his head in confusion. “Jim told me everything.”

John took a moment to remember that Moriarty had a first name, and then everything clicked: Moriarty told her that John killed them.

“Jim? Jim Moriarty?” John asked. “Molly – whatever he said – it’s not true –” Molly continued to glare at him, and he licked his lips, planning his words carefully.

* * *

“She’s not going to listen to him,” Sherlock announced. “Moriarty’s brainwashed her too much.”

“Will she…you know…?” Harry asked.

“No, she won’t kill him,” he assured her. “Whether she’s on Moriarty’s side or not, she’s still twelve.” The twelve-year-olds rarely kill in the Games, unless there was a truly twisted soul in the Arena.

As long as Molly didn’t find a way to get Moriarty involved, John was safe for now.

* * *

“I just want water,” John begged. “That’s it; that’s all. I didn’t even know you were here. Honest. I can – just to prove it, I can just stand right here until you leave. And I won’t follow you. I just want the water, Molly.”

Molly looked him over, as if trying to read his thoughts.

“…Toss your stuff over here,” she said, not letting her guard down. John complied, throwing the bag so it landed neatly at her feet. She put her knife in her pocket, got to her knees, and searched his pack, seeing if he was really lying about the missing weapon. She held up his empty knife roll.

“What about these?” she asked. “Where are they?”

“Well, one’s with you,” he began, and her hand instinctively touched it through her pocket. “And I lost the other four.”

“Really?” she asked, suspicious.

John put his arms out.

“You can search me if you want.”

Molly looked him over for a moment, scrutinizing him as she slowly put the knife pack back into his bag.

“You really don’t have anything, do you?” she asked.

“That’s all I have,” he said as she opened his medical kit. “That was a sponsor gift.”

She went through it, searching for anything out of the ordinary; John wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for anymore.

“You’ve got a lot in here,” she said quietly.

“Please don’t take it,” John requested quickly before he could stop himself. He hoped it didn’t sound like begging as much as it did to his own ears. “My leg – one of the mutts from yesterday got to it.” He quickly got down to his knees to roll up his pants’ leg and show her, and when he looked back up at her she was standing, knife in hand again. She looked at his ankle, and then back at the medkit.

To his relief, she returned it to the bag and closed it. Then, watching John closely for any sudden movements, she filled up her two jugs of water.

When she was done, she stood up with one of the jugs in her pack, the other in one hand, and her knife – still pointed at John – in the other hand.

“Close your eyes and count to one hundred – no, five hundred. And then you can move,” she ordered.

Something wasn’t right.

“Where is he? Jim?” he asked. “If I close my eyes he won’t attack me, will he?”

After a second, Molly replied. “He’s not here; he’s at the Cornucopia.”

John wasn’t sure if he wanted to show Molly she could trust him or just do what she said to avoid getting killed, or to just get out of his head for a few moments, but he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, and he began to count.

“One…two…three…”

Slowly, he heard Molly taking hesitant steps around him and back into the forest. By the time he reached fifty, he could hear her careful steps turn into a fast walk away from him, but kept counting until he reached one hundred, and then opened his eyes. Neglecting the other four hundred Molly requested for him to count, just in case she was lying about Moriarty’s whereabouts, he then turned his attention to his things.

He took his canteen out of his bag, leaned over the pond and drank as much as he could, and then filled up his canteen. He was screwing the top on when he heard a noise.

The cannon blast was so sudden it nearly caused John to drop the canteen into the pond. Was that Molly? Mary? Moriarty? Was whoever killed them coming for him?

He quickly put his canteen into the pack and stood up to run, but found a sponsor gift attached to a little parachute land about where he himself had stood when Molly was searching through his things.

He approached it; it was a circular tin with a number 12 stamped onto the top. He opened the lid and found none other than a slice of Red Velvet cake – Mycroft’s favorite, he was surprised to remember. John stared at it, confused, until he noticed a note taped to the lid:

_I’m sorry. – M.H._

And that’s all it took for John to figure it out: Mary Morstan had died.

* * *

Immediately, the Final Six celebration began, and Caesar and Claudius launched not only a “best of” moments reel for each tribute, but also the interviews from their families and friends.

Jim Moriarty, being from District 1, was first.

“Tell me when John’s on,” Harry said, getting up and leaving the house. Sherlock took a moment to watch the beginning of the best of reel – killing Carl Powers – and followed her out.

Harry sat on the porch, letting her legs dangle off the side. Sherlock sat down beside her.

“I’m not watching that,” she said, glaring forward. “I’m not celebrating the fact that eighteen kids were killed. And I’m  _definitely_  not watching ten minutes of non-stop Moriarty.” She glanced at him. “You can, if you want to. To get a better look at him, or whatever. But I’m staying out here.”

“Then I am, too,” Sherlock said, decidedly. “I’ve looked at Moriarty enough to last a lifetime, anyway. I’m sick of his stupid face.” He looked at Harry to find the corner of her mouth rise up in amusement.

“Me too.”

“Besides, there’s not much more deducing I can do at this point – the only thing we can really do now is wait for the finale.”

“Yeah,” Harry said quietly, her mind obviously occupied by the thought of the finale. There was a moment of silence between them. “Do you ever miss Mycroft when he’s gone for this long?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“Not as much as I’d miss him if he never came back home in the first place. ...But yes, I do miss him.” He thought about what he had said for a moment. “Don’t tell him I said that, though.”

“I won’t,” Harry said with a chuckle. “I was just thinking that John might have Mycroft’s job if he wins...”

“No, they’ll have the same job; according to Mycroft every other district has two mentors at once; we’re the only one with just one.”

“Huh,” Harry said, distracted as she looked up and down the street. “I think we might just be the only ones who  _aren’t_  watching the broadcast. I’ve never seen this place so quiet.”

“Well, it’s like you said: no one from District Twelve has gotten this far in a long while. They all have hope they haven’t had in forever. They’re all rooting for John.”

Harry’s lips curved upward again in a smile that did not quite reach her eyes but then, as if remembering something, she put her head in her hands.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Shit shit shit.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Mary’s parents,” she said, looking up at him. “Their daughter just died. And if John somehow lives – they’re gonna resent him for the rest of their lives.”

Sherlock had not thought of that before – the parents of the tribute who died opposite the District’s victor. He then thought of Anthea’s family. Had Mycroft tried to make amends? Yes – of course he had – it was only polite, and Mycroft was the king of manners to everyone who wasn’t Sherlock. Had Anthea’s family forgiven him? That was also a thing about Mycroft – he was very good at keeping his personal feelings to himself if they didn’t concern Sherlock.

“Come on,” Harry said as she stood up, tearing Sherlock from his thoughts.

“Where are we going?” he asked as he got up and they started walking.

“I saw some white flowers growing by the mines a few days ago. We’re bringing those to the Morstans’.”

* * *

John did not want to eat the cake – he felt too sick – but his hunger forced him to. He felt dirty eating the cake – wasn’t cake supposed to be had in happier times? He was fuming and upset and he wanted to go after whoever the hell killed Mary, but that was just it: he didn’t know.

But he could have, if they hadn’t separated. How long were they apart, a few hours? What if he had still been with her? Maybe she would still be alive? Or maybe they’d  _both_  be dead...

He had never seen survivor’s guilt before; the Capitol never made note of it. He only saw the ghosts of it on Mycroft’s face, and that was the only way he knew that it was something that other people experienced and not just him. He wondered if the careers ever experienced anything like this – if they had any remorse for what they did in the Games. Maybe they found an excuse in the “kill or be killed” mantra. Or maybe they enjoyed killing too much to care.

It was then Mycroft’s words came to him, the ones he had given him after he had killed Victor Trevor: live in the present moment. He was right; John had to focus on himself. He couldn’t do anything for Mary now, all he could do was eat the damned cake and keep limping around until he could find somewhere to rest.

He hated his leg – he hated the muttations and the Capitol and the Games – he wanted to hurt someone but had no idea who or how. He definitely wasn’t about to search for Moriarty with a leg like this; that would be like bathing in gasoline before running into a burning building. He just had to wait things out for a little while. But how long would the Capitol wait for  _him?_

He was weaponless. All of his allies were dead. He was completely and utterly alone. The end was coming – it was only a matter of time, now.


	28. Lies

The moment Sherlock and Harry returned to the Watsons’ house, Mrs. Watson opened the door and announced that John’s interviews were about to be broadcast. They returned to their places in front of the television screen just after John’s “greatest moments” (which were few and far between, only because John was nowhere near as malicious as the careers, and he had only killed other tributes by accident thus far), and sat down just in time to watch the interviews.

John’s family was shown first. Mr. Watson sat in the middle of Harry and a crying Mrs. Watson, and he spoke for the both of them, talking about how proud they were of John and how badly they wished for him to come home alive. At the end of the two-minute segment, it cut to Caesar.

“There was also another very special person we went to visit in District Twelve to talk about John – let’s see how Sherlock Holmes feels about John making it to the final six!”

And then Sherlock saw himself on the screen, facing Kitty Riley. Compared to her, he looked like a child who had played a losing game of dress-up to look as nice as her. She was donned in Capitol clothes and was clean and he was...he was from District Twelve. How nice could he actually look, standing next to a Capitol citizen? He looked calm, but only Sherlock could see the fear etched deep into his own features. He remembered his fear – how careful he had been. He had to be – not only for his safety but for John’s and Mycroft’s.

“So, John Watson is in the final six. How do you feel about that, Sherlock?” Kitty Riley asked, a smile stretching across her face.

“Extremely pleased. He’s done amazing so far, and I’m so proud of him.” The words painted a smile on his face for a moment, and then it was taken away as he added quickly: “And I’m eternally thankful for how generous the Capitol has been in giving him what he needs.”

“Now let’s talk about you for a second, if you don’t mind –” Sherlock’s expression on the screen changed for a moment, and Sherlock remembered the words he had to swallow back: “I’d rather not make this about me.” But that would be defying the Capitol, and he couldn’t do that at such an important time for John. He had to sell Johnlock, after all, and that meant making himself look as likable and as “for John” as possible. “This is not the first time you’ve had a loved one not only in the Hunger Games but in the final six, am I right?” Kitty asked, even though she knew full well that it wasn’t.

“Yes, that’s correct,” Sherlock said, nodding.

“Yes, your brother won the Sixty-Sixth Hunger Games a few years ago, didn’t he?” Of course she would have brought up Mycroft at a time like this. Of course she would remind him of the hold the Capitol had on him personally. “Tell me: do you find history repeating itself? First with your brother, and now with the boy you love?”

 “No, I don’t,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head. “I see John and Mycroft’s Games as different events; after all, they are different people who mean different things to me. I try not to make comparisons between the two.”

“But you can’t help but admit that you’ve been awfully lucky, haven’t you?” Kitty asked. “First, your brother becomes the first victor of the Hunger Games that District Twelve has ever had, and now John Watson makes it to the final six; a place that a tribute from District Twelve hasn’t made it to since Mycroft’s victory –”

“My luck has nothing to do with it; it only matters that John’s luck doesn’t run out,” Sherlock said, cutting her off. He remembered wanting to swallow his words, to have bitten his tongue until she finished her thought, even though they both knew that she was just trying to rile him up – to get him to say something he’d regret, and show the world the Sherlock Holmes they both knew: the rude asshole who didn’t deserve John Watson’s – or the Capitol’s – love.

“And what do you think about that, John’s luck? Do you believe the odds are in his favor?” Kitty asked, arching an eyebrow.

“The odds –” For a moment, anyone who knew Sherlock personally could see the anger flare up in his eyes as he just barely spat the words. He took half a second to recollect himself. “– can do whatever they please.”

“Nice save,” Harry said, smirking. She knew what he had actually wanted to say.  _“The odds can kiss my ass.”_

Sherlock smirked back at her. “Thanks.”

“I just want John to win,” the Sherlock on the screen told all of Panem, and everyone could see the desperation in his eyes. “That’s all I want. It’s all I can think about. I want him to win, and I want him to come home.”

And just like that, it was gone – it was all gone. The emotion in Sherlock’s eyes was completely gone, and his face was replaced with the six faces of the living tributes, and the faces of Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith.

“So those are our final six tributes!” Caesar exclaimed happily. “What a great and interesting bunch we’ve got this year, wouldn’t you agree, Claudius?”

“I would indeed, Caesar,” Claudius said enthusiastically. “And I can’t wait to see what they do next!”

“Well, how about we check in on them, shall we?”

The cameras cut to the Cornucopia, where Sebastian and Moriarty were making out against a crate of weapons, while Irene stood watch, leaning against the mouth of the metal horn.

“She’s coming back,” she said indifferently as she examined her nails, and with one last kiss the two boys separated.

“Hullo Irene,” Molly greeted her, bowing her head shyly.

“Welcome back,” Irene replied with a sickeningly sweet grin as Molly passed by. She approached Moriarty, now a few feet away from Sebastian, who was sitting on the crate sharpening a stick with his knife.

“Hi, Jim; hi Sebastian,” she greeted the boys as she approached Jim. “I got the water,” she said, passing the jug she was holding to him.

“Excellent, thank you, Molly,” Moriarty said as he took it. “Did you see anyone out there?”

“No, I didn’t,” Molly said, shaking her head as she took off her bag and gave it to Moriarty.

“She’s lying,” Harry all but whispered, suspicious.

“I noticed Sebastian did, though.” Molly said, quickly trying to get everyone’s attention off of her. She looked at him. “Who was it?”

“Morstan, from Twelve,” Sebastian replied without looking up.

“So that means –” Molly began.

“That’s right,” Moriarty said, spreading his arms out. “Molly Hooper, welcome to the final six.”

A ghost of a smile danced upon her lips as Moriarty beamed from ear to ear.

“So who’s left?” she asked. “There’s the four of us, John Watson, and...-”

“The girl from Five,” Irene said, joining the conversation. “I’ll take care of her tomorrow morning.”

“And that’ll leave our Johnny boy for whenever the Gamemakers want their show,” Moriarty said, winking at the nearest camera and making Sherlock’s stomach churn.

They were saving John for last – for the four-against-one attack of the decade.

“Oh god,” Sherlock breathed, not even loud enough for Harry to hear next to him.

“Sherlock, Molly’s protecting him,” Harry said, looking up at him. “She must not trust the careers – if she did, she’d give him away. So...what is she doing?”

“Something John said must’ve gotten through to her on the way back,” Sherlock replied quietly. “But she knows if she goes against the careers now they’ll kill her. So now she’s just biding her time.”

“Can she run?” Harry asked. “I mean I would –”

“She could, but there’s nowhere for her to go. Running could just make her death more painful, depending on how pissed Moriarty got.”

“I’d still try though."

And Molly Hooper did try that night, when Sherlock and Harry were back watching the broadcast at Sherlock’s house. While she was on her watch, she quietly packed a few supplies into her bag and snuck out of camp.

She only made it about fifty feet before she heard a voice call out to her.

“Molly?” She spun around and came face to face with Jim Moriarty. “What’s going on?” he asked innocently.

Her face contorted at first, trying to figure out a good excuse, and then she stopped and looked up at him.

“I – I was leaving.”

“Leaving?” he repeated, confused. “But what about John? You won’t be able to survive on your own with him out there –”

“Well I wanted to take my chances,” Molly replied, shrugging. “Goodbye, Jim,” she said, turning around and beginning to walk away.

Then Moriarty grabbed her arm, and Sherlock knew it was over for her.

“I don’t appreciate lies, Molly,” he said darkly, his whole demeanor changing. Sherlock gripped the arm of the couch, anxious. He was certain that very soon, he would use the exact same tone of voice with John. “Especially not lies coming from little twelve year old mouths – because they have no idea how to lie, yet. So I’d suggest you be honest with me, Molly. You ran into John Watson today, didn’t you?” he asked.

Molly glanced down at Moriarty’s hand gripping her arm, and then looked back up at him. Her lower lip trembled, but still she spoke.

“I might’ve,” she said, but the fear in her voice caused for the words to come out as if she was asking instead of telling him.

“And let me guess: he told you a fantastically beautiful story that ended with saying I lied to you?” he asked, sarcastic. Molly shrugged. “Well here’s a secret: he’s right.”

There was only a fraction of a second for Molly to react. She tried to pull her arm from his grip, eyes wide, but it was far too late for her. In a quick, single movement, Moriarty pulled a knife from the waistband of his pants and plunging it deep into Molly Hooper’s stomach.

She looked up, mouth agape. She grabbed the wrist of the hand that had killed her.

“J-...Jim –”

“Honestly, Eight. Trusting a career? I’m surprised you lived this long.”

“I didn’t trust you –” Molly started, blood bubbling out of her mouth.

“Oh, that’s right; you thought you were stronger than me.” He smirked and pulled the knife out of her torso and stabbed her again, and she grabbed his shoulder in pain, trying to support herself. “Well you were  _wrong,”_  he cooed, turning the knife.

She screamed into her gritted teeth, her knees buckling and tears falling down her face.

“Goodbye, Molly Hooper. It’s been nice playing with you.”

Harry looked away, but Sherlock couldn’t tear his eyes from the screen. He watched as, in one swift movement, Jim Moriarty gutted Molly Hooper, slicing her torso open. Molly screamed, her young voice piercing through the night.

Moriarty used Molly’s shirt to clean the blood from his knife. When he was done, he looked at his hands. He rolled his eyes, sighing, and wiped as much of the blood off as he could onto her clothes. He then stood up as if nothing had happened, inspecting his knife as he walked back to the Cornucopia.

“Eight today, John tomorrow,” he decided, putting his knife back in his pants as he walked.

When he reached the water supply to clean his hands of Molly’s blood, he noticed Molly had woken up Irene and Sebastian. They didn’t say anything until the cannon burst.

“Finally,” Irene muttered, and rolled over to fall back asleep.

* * *

The sound of the cannon pulled John from his sleep. He sat up, clapping his hands over his mouth to stop himself from yelling out. He heaved in his breaths, trying to figure out if the cannon was real or not.

But then the world around him wasn’t so pitch-black, and John looked up and found Molly Hooper’s face in the sky, looking down at him. Now that it was down to the final six, the Capitol didn’t wait for a certain time to announce the dead. As soon as their heart stopped beating and the cannon notified the tributes of that, their face would appear in the sky.

He watched as Molly’s face disappeared from the world forever, setting his jaw in thought.

The cannon wasn’t for him, yet.

* * *

“Well, it looks like Jim Moriarty from District One has made the decision for us: the Hunger Games Finale is  _tomorrow_ , so make sure you tune in and see who wins the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!” Caesar Flickerman announced.

As Caesar and Claudius shared their thoughts on who might have a chance at winning, Sherlock looked down at his hands and spoke to Harry.

“I...I think you should stay home tomorrow, Harry,” he said brokenly.

Harry looked up at him.

“What?”

“You should watch the finale with your family,” he said without looking up. “I’ll watch tomorrow by myself.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, confused. “You’re my family – part of it, at least. You’re watching it with us –”

“Harry,” he said, finally looking up and meeting her eyes. “I just need to be alone tomorrow. In case...you know. This is important to me. And as much as I appreciate the sentiment...I’m not your family; I’m not even part of it. And I still don’t know what to do in times of grief. How to comfort others.”

“But what about  _you_?” Harry asked. “I don’t want you to be alone if...if...” She stopped, tearing up at the thought. She must’ve remembered what happened last time she begged him to come watch the Games with her family, and sighed. “...Fine. Just...don’t do...anything...bad. You know where I am if you do need someone. And Mycroft probably wouldn’t mind you calling.”

“Right,” Sherlock said, nodding. “Thank you.”

Harry leaned over and wrapped her arms around him.

“I’d say that it’s going to be okay no matter what happens, but...it won’t be,” she said quietly.

“That’s because we’re conditioned to think like that. We’re made to believe that life goes on. It doesn’t, though, not really.” Sherlock explained. “Not like it did, before. It’s not the same.”

And then he knew what Mycroft had meant, all those years ago, when he said that caring was not an advantage. If he hadn’t cared, if he had just rejected John’s attempts of friendship that day, he wouldn’t be living like this. Hugging this girl and trying to comfort her over the potential loss of her brother; trying to convince himself that a life without John Watson was a life worth living; that John Watson’s death was something that could be survived.

But would he trade it, if he could? Would he go back and change it, knowing what he knew now?

No. He wouldn’t change a damned thing.


	29. The Meadow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ  
> So my computer freaking died, so this is why it's an off-week. (Don't worry - I saved all my Hungerlock stuff on a flash drive) (RIP UASS) Luckily, though, my best friend in the whole wide world (and my beta reader for this fic) was kind enough to offer to let me use her computer to post this chapter while I was here, and then she'll post chapters on the regular schedule until my new computer comes in and set up. If we reach the end of Sentiment before then, she'll stop and I'll post omakes and shit when the computer comes in. YAY HIATUS? XD I have just been informed that nobody likes hiatuses. But they're a necessary part of life, so it's probably gonna happen here too whether we like it or not.
> 
> So now, please welcome Niqi! Be nice or she'll stop posting. XD I'll be in the comments though. Watching. Waiting. And reading all your feedback because I want to know what you guys think. Because I'm a NARCISSIST. XD

John woke up early the next morning, his nerves winning out against his desire to sleep. He knew this feeling well – when he was twelve he couldn’t sleep at all the night before his first reaping. If only he knew then what he knew now – if only he knew then that he had to worry about his _last_ reaping ceremony, not his _first…_

As he was reapplying clean bandages to his ankle, he heard a cannon blast. On instinct, he checked the sky, and found Soo Lin Yao’s face. That was it. Only the career tributes were alive now besides himself, and it was now three against one.

Now, John only had two options: stupidly go on a suicide mission and try to take on Irene Adler, Sebastian Moran, and Jim Moriarty all on his own with a bum leg, armed with absolutely nothing but his own fists; or he could wait for the careers to pick themselves off one by one, and then let the Capitol push him in the direction of whoever was left for the finale, where he could fight them all on his own with a bum leg, armed with absolutely nothing but his own fists. He refused acknowledge the odds, because he knew it was true they were definitely not in his favor.

This was very possibly the last day of John’s life, and he was going to spend it playing chicken on national television with three of the most dangerous people he had ever encountered. He was terrified, beyond the point of crying or shaking or doing anything a normal person would do in the face of fear. He just got up and walked, keeping his legs moving to reduce any stiffness in his wounded leg in case he needed to run, and keeping himself moving so he didn’t have to think anymore.

* * *

Sherlock was alone in his empty house, watching the Games with a bottle in hand, fearing for John’s life. Every time he took a swig of whiskey and felt it burn down his throat, he couldn’t help but think how much he would give for a syringe full of Morphling. After about half the bottle, he realized that he would give almost as much as he would give if he could ensure that John would come home. But he couldn’t do anything but sit and drink and watch – Mycroft had removed all Morphling from the house years ago, and the Capitol wouldn’t take anything Sherlock had to offer, especially now. Because it was today.

The finale was today.

So he just stared at the screen, and drank.

When Irene Adler returned from killing Soo Lin Yao, Moriarty and Sebastian were waiting for her. They stood at the mouth of the Cornucopia, side by side, arms crossed. She drew her whip, stained red from Soo Lin’s blood, out to full length at the sight of them, pursing her lips.

“So, this is how it’s going to be?” she asked, unsurprised by the turn of events.

“You knew it was coming, I’m sure,” Moriarty replied as Sebastian drew out a sword from the sheath on his belt.

“Doesn’t mean I can’t still fight,” she said.

“I suppose not,” Moriarty shrugged. “Let me just ask one thing though: how does one die from a whip?”

Irene smirked and cracked the whip, displaying its power.

“Slowly and painfully.”

Moriarty looked at Sebastian and nodded, and Sebastian began to walk towards Irene.

The fight was quick, barely the show Moriarty had promised – but then again, he had promised that  _John’s_  demise would be a show, not Irene’s. The only female tribute left in the Arena cracked her whip again, trying to wrap it around Sebastian’s wrist, but he was too quick. He grabbed the end of it, his palm cutting open as the rope connected with him. There was a moment of tug-of-war, but Sebastian, who was far more muscular than Irene, pulled the rope with one swift tug, and sent her flying, falling on her face. Before she could get up, he straddled her, pulling the rope around her neck and crossing the two ends to ensure she couldn’t escape. He then pulled her up into a kneeling position as she clawed at him and the rope. Within a minute, Sebastian had the girl on her knees, the rope of the whip around her throat, facing Moriarty.

“I thought you liked this sort of thing, Irene. Don’t you?” Moriarty asked, a smirk playing at his lips.

“I’m normally not the one on my knees.” She managed to choke out.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything. First and last, I suppose,” Moriarty shrugged. “Don’t take this personally, Irene; I’m just playing the Game,” he said with a shrug as Irene Adler started to stop fighting, beginning to pass out. Moriarty nodded once more to Sebastian, and he raised his sword into the air and brought it down on her neck, fully decapitating her.

Within seconds, the cannon blasted, echoing across the Arena, and Irene’s face was looking down at the three surviving tributes.

“Final three,” Moriarty practically sang as he approached Sebastian and brought his lips up to his. He then looked down at Irene. “She looks good in red,” he decided, and then looked up at Sebastian again. “One more round, for old time’s sake? Before we play with Johnny boy?” he asked, looking at the boy hungrily.

Sebastian shrugged, and Jim led him into the Cornucopia, where they began to kiss and remove each other’s clothes, one last time. The cameras cut away to the outside of the Cornucopia as the hovercraft arrived, its engines drowning out the sounds of Moriarty and Sebastian fucking as it echoed around and out of the metal cone.

As the metal hook came down and collected Irene Adler – her and her head separately, the ground opened up in the middle of the open field, not far from the Cornucopia, and a table rose out of the hole. The table contained nothing but three envelopes – one marked with a large number “1”, one with a “2”, and the third with a “12.” Instantly, Sherlock knew that the contents of the last envelope was the letter he had written for John, and it was now being used to draw him out.

The cameras then cut to John, his face empty of all emotion but fear as he walked.

“Our dear John Watson seems a little downhearted,” Caesar noted.

 _No thanks to you_ , Sherlock thought.

“Let’s give him a little inspiration to win, shall we?” he asked. “A little reminder of what’s waiting for him back home?”

“Yes, I think we should,” Claudius agreed, and made a call in to Seneca Crane. “Seneca?” he asked as his face appeared on the screen.

“Yes?” he replied.

“Initiate ‘Operation Iris,’ if you don’t mind,” Caesar requested, and Seneca nodded knowingly, a smile on his face.

“Can do,” he said, and then he went over to one of the Gamemakers. “Bring out the flowers, could you?” he asked, and the Gamemaker complied, pressing a few buttons on her screen.

Sherlock took another swig of his whiskey.

* * *

John unknowingly stepped into a clearing, and found something beautiful – which in itself was something he never expected to see in the Hunger Games. There, in the middle of hell itself, was a small meadow of purple irises. He stumbled into the meadow, trying to figure out if it was real or if he was hallucinating out of panic. He fell to his knees and picked one of the flowers, touching the petals between his thumb and first finger and decided, yes, it was real.

His chest tightened and tears sprang to his eyes, overwhelmed with what the simple flowers meant to him, now. It seemed like so long ago that the iris was presented to John during his interview – years, perhaps.  _“Do you have feelings for Sherlock, John?”_  Caesar had asked, while John’s mind was spinning so wildly he almost couldn’t breathe. He remembered how he had blurted it out, when it was just about saving his own skin, trying to play the audience and the Games:  _“Yes! Sherlock, I – I love Sherlock Holmes.”_

This whole time he had been playing it up for the Games, but the tears that were threatening to overflow and the way his heart was beating in his chest weren’t for the cameras, and John knew it. This was real. It was so unbearably real that John almost couldn’t stand it.

He looked at the flowers and they were as beautiful as they had been in the meadow back home, all those years ago. As beautiful as Sherlock’s mind – as Sherlock’s face – as Sherlock Holmes –

He ran is hands over the flowers, feeling each individual flower slide across his palms and fingers, and he wanted it to be Sherlock instead. He wanted Sherlock so badly – he wanted him like he wanted home – he wanted him like wanted life itself.

John wanted Sherlock like Sherlock had wanted John – had always wanted John – had wanted nothing – wanted _no_ body – but John.

And John suddenly knew exactly how Sherlock had felt for all these years – a feeling so much more powerful than the feeling of wanting to crawl under a rock and die and wanting to walk up to them and ask them out simultaneously that he had felt for so many girls before – those were just simple crushes, and John knew that, now. This was skipping right over wanting to die and instead wanting to leap into their arms and never let go for the rest of time.

This was different. This was love.

And finally, the tears fell.

John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes.

If he didn’t know it earlier, he definitely did now.

“Sherlock,” he whispered, simply letting his name pass his lips because it felt so incredibly  _right_  in that moment.

He remembered the way Sherlock held onto him as they said their goodbyes, as Sherlock tried to tell him about his feelings. He remembered the desperation in his voice – the need for John to come back overflowing. And now, a week or so later, he was so close – so incredibly  _close_  – to the end of these fucking Games. He was so close to coming home. He was so close to seeing those pale blue eyes again –

The sound of trumpets ripped John from his thoughts and into reality. The voice of Claudius Templesmith, so familiar from all the times he’s heard him speak during the broadcasts of Games previous, back when he was safe, boomed all around him.

“Congratulations, tributes, on making it to the final three.”

John wiped the tears from his eyes. He was still in the Games. He had to focus on the words that were being said to him.

Final three. Jim Moriarty. Sebastian Moran. John Watson. He had seen Irene’s face in the sky, he knew that there was only three of them left, but hearing someone else say it made it all the more real.

“To celebrate, we got into contact with your families and loved ones –” John’s heart skipped a beat, trying to figure out if this was a good thing or not. “– and they all graciously wrote letters to each of you. That’s right: each of you has a letter from home, just waiting to be read, at the Cornucopia.”

The rest of Claudius’ words faded away – everything faded away.

Letters from home.

Contact with family.

Family – loved ones.

Mom and Dad? Harry?

_Sherlock._

Contact with Sherlock, it had to be – a letter from Sherlock!

But his legs would not move. It was a trap, and he knew it. The Capitol always did this – if danger wasn’t driving the finalists together, it was something enticing, something they wanted. But normally it was food or medicine or supplies. Letters from home – some sort of proof that the world outside of the Arena and the Games still existed – he couldn’t remember if they had ever offered that before.

John wanted it – he found himself  _needing_  it, he missed Sherlock so much.

But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t – he  _wouldn’t_  . There were still two careers out there, hungry for his blood. He was still weaponless and injured – going would be suicide. He had to wait. He had to refuse the letter.

He found himself shaking his head and speaking to the cameras – to Sherlock.

“I’m sorry...I’m sorry,” he whispered as more tears fell from his eyes. “I can’t – they’ll kill me. I can’t –”

He heard something lightly hit the ground and he looked up, panicked for just a moment, until he saw, just a few feet in front of him, a parachute and a package, marked with a number 12. John crawled forward, towards the case, all thoughts of Sherlock momentarily gone. All thoughts of the letter momentarily gone. He was fixated on his gift – it had to be a weapon or he was doomed. What else could they give him at this point?

John Watson opened the case and found a knife; not a throwing knife, but a  _real_  knife with a foot-long blade. It was beautiful and terrifying and now John’s only hope of survival.

There was a note tied to the hilt:

_You’re almost done. Go. – M.H._

John looked up, and past the parachute at the end of the meadow, there was a path of irises that wasn’t there before.

They were leading him to the slaughter.

But now he had a chance.


	30. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Niqi. You're getting this chapter a day early because I'll be away from home all weekend. Enjoy.

At the end of the announcement, the cameras cut back to Moriarty and Sebastian, as they exited the Cornucopia to find the table of the letters.

“They must’ve set that up when they took Irene,” Sebastian said as Moriarty walked ahead, approaching the table to inspect the envelopes. He lifted up his own envelope, looking at the Capitol’s wax seal on the other side.

“Boring!” he declared ripping his envelope into fourths. “Do you want yours?” he asked Sebastian, turning around and leaning on the edge of the table. Sebastian shrugged, and Moriarty took his letter from the table, too, and began to tear it apart. “Make a fire, Seb. We just got ourselves some Capitol-issued kindling.”

Sebastian seemed to smile for a second as he complied, and within a few minutes the two letters were burning, blackening and curling with every passing second. Moriarty was now sitting on the table, watching the flames, pensive.

“What are you thinking about?” Sebastian asked.

“Within an hour, I’ll be going back home,” Moriarty said. He leaned back, placing his hands flat on the table behind him. Sherlock couldn’t help but notice how young he looked – how young he was, despite all of this – despite the brutality that raged within him. “I have loved this – you have no idea. I’ll miss it dearly. The Games. The atmosphere. The  _thrill_  of the  _kill...”_  He trailed off, and continued again after a moment. “Honestly, I’ve never had more fun in my life.” He cocked his head to the side, watching the wind dance through the tops of the tree branches at the edge of the empty field. Without warning, he turned his head to John’s letter.

“No,” Sherlock whispered.

“Put out the fire, Seb. I think it’s time to see what the great and wonderful Sherlock Holmes is all about, and just what he means to our little Johnny boy...”

* * *

John followed the trail of irises with nothing but the clothes and jacket on his back and the knife that the sponsors gave him in his pocket. No matter what happened, he wouldn’t need his backpack where he was going, whether that be back to the Capitol or into the ground. He felt numb, aside from the throbbing ache in his leg. Mycroft told him to go ahead, to make the journey to the Cornucopia. Mycroft had faith in him. And  _someone_  in the Capitol had enough faith in him to help provide him with a knife...

But John was tired – he was  _so_  tired. He thought of his family. He thought of Sherlock. He thought of being back in District 12, but he didn’t think he could get there anymore. He didn’t want to play the Game anymore.

 _You’re almost done. You’re almost done,_ chanted Mycroft’s words, bouncing around in John’s otherwise empty head.  _You’re almost done. Go._

The trail of flowers began to thin out, and John knew he was close. When the trail of irises ended completely, stranding John in the middle of the woods, he crouched down, hiding in bushes, knowing that if he continued to stand up straight he’d probably be seen. He then noticed he didn’t need the flowers anymore; he just had to follow the sound of Jim Moriarty’s voice.

“‘To my  _dearest_  John Watson...’”

* * *

Sherlock watched, horrified, as Jim Moriarty laid on the table, resting on his elbows, legs alternatively kicking in the air, reading Sherlock’s letter out loud.

“‘To my  _dearest_  John Watson,’ – dearest? Really? ‘I  _should_  say that I miss you  _immensely_  and I  _love_  you with  _all my’ widdle ‘heart_ , and other sappy, sentimental things, but you know that’s not who I am.’”

Moriarty laughed, and Sherlock felt a lump developing in his throat. This is not how John should be hearing this.

“‘I assume that, if you’re reading this, you’ve made it fairly far in the Hunger Games. A crew from the Capitol came and interviewed me for the final six and told me to write this, so I’m guessing that, again if you’re reading this, you’ve made it at least to the final six.’ Well, he’s not wrong... ‘And for that, I am _so_ proud of you. Your parents and Harry are too.’ That must be the sister!

“‘District 12 isn’t the  _same_  without you, just to let you know. It’s dull as all hell.’ I like the way he thinks!” Moriarty decided, rolling over onto his back and continuing to read. “‘It’s interesting how one person can impact an entire community of people, or maybe just me and my perception of how District 12 is running without you. Either way, that just proves how luminous you are. Of course, you’re not the most luminous of people –’  _this_  is the person we want our little Johnny to be with?” he asked, incredulously. “He seems like an  _asshole_  – ‘but as a conductor of light, you are unbeatable. And I’ve known that from the start.’ D’aww...

“‘Okay, yes, I miss you. I miss it being just the  _two of us against the rest of the world_.’ Bit of a drama queen too, if I do say so myself. ‘I hope you do too.’ Bless his heart, the poor baby! It brings a tear to my eye! ‘I am a ridiculous person, in fact I’m the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious asshole that anyone could ever meet.’ Honestly, it seems like it –” Jim added out the side of his mouth. “Aw, Sebastian, listen to this part! –”

It was then something clicked in Sherlock’s head. He searched all of the camera angles the broadcast was showing at once, and it still didn’t answer his suddenly ever-pressing question:

Where was Sebastian Moran?

* * *

“‘I am  _only_  redeemed by the assuring  _warmth_  and  _constancy_  of the friendship of the  _bravest, kindest_ ,’  _SEX_ IEST, ‘and  _wisest_  human being that I’ve ever had the good fortune of knowing. I never imagined having a best friend, especially not one as great as you.’ I just might vomit this is so sweet and squishy and  _gross!”_

Those were Sherlock’s words. Moriarty was reading them out loud, adding his own commentary and flourish, his tone going back and forth between a deep manly voice, a voice one might use when talking to a baby, and his regular enthusiastically ridiculous tone. But it was still Sherlock’s words.

He thought he was brave. And kind. And wise. Before he and Sherlock said their goodbyes back in District 12, Sherlock had never said a single nice thing about John. At least, not to his face. When John and Mycroft first met, he mentioned that Sherlock spoke fondly of him. But this was the first time he knew how just how fondly Sherlock thought of him.

John was now at the edge of the clearing, just a line of brush keeping him out of Moriarty’s line of sight, if he was looking. John watched through the leaves as Moriarty finished the letter:

“‘So, this is my note.’” he continued dramatically. “‘I know you’ve endured  _hurt_  and  _loss_  in these Games but  _I_  can assure you that if you are reading this now, it’s almost over.’ He’s right about that one!  _‘And then we’ll both have a lifetime to spend together.’_ ” Moriarty began to laugh obnoxiously loud. The laughter seemed to drag on forever. “Not so much there, Sherlock, my boy. ‘Good luck, John. Sincerely,’ with all my heart and soul, yours forever, ‘Sherlock Holmes.’”

The moment Moriarty finished, someone grabbed the back of John’s shirt, pulling him upwards and backwards and then shoving him forward, onto his face and out of his hiding place. He looked up to find Jim Moriarty lying on his back on a table, out of place in the middle of the field. At the sound of John’s forced entrance, Moriarty tilted his head back as far as it could go to see who had arrived. They made eye contact for a moment, and then a cruel, sick, yet genuine smile spread across Moriarty’s face. He quickly sat up and spun around to face John properly.

“Well, hello, Johnny boy. Welcome to the show.”

John scrambled, unsure of what his fight-or-flight instincts were telling him to do. He just had to get on his knees – on his feet – needed to do something – needed to move –

* * *

The cameras cut to Moriarty as he rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Sebastian,” he called, voice drawling, and there he was, pulling John to his knees, putting him in a choke hold. John clawed uselessly at the stronger boy’s arms.

“So it’s come to this. Just the three of us,” Moriarty began, getting off the table and approaching John and Sebastian. “Isn’t it amazing, how twenty-four people can turn into three in just nine short days?”

* * *

Nine days. John had been in hell for nine days.

Jim Moriarty extended his arms, gesturing to the Arena around them.

“Look at all the hearts we’ve stopped!” He put his arms down. “Look at all the hearts  _I’ve_  stopped. I’ll stop yours too, John Watson. Just you wait.”

He wouldn’t stop smiling.

* * *

Jim Moriarty was not a man at all, Sherlock was now figuring out. He was a monster – a devil in disguise – and he was in his element.

“Let him breathe for the moment, Seb,” Moriarty ordered, and Sebastian complied. He adjusted himself, holding John’s arms behind his back. “Cute friend you’ve got here,” he continued, waving the note. “My eyes have always been a bit prying; I hope you don’t mind.” He opened the letter and glanced through it again. “He reminds me a bit of myself, Sherlock does –”

“Don’t you  _dare_  say his name!” John spat, struggling in Sebastian’s grip. Somewhere, deep in Sherlock’s brain, past all the fear, past all the hate for Moriarty, he felt love. John was face-to-face with death itself, and he was still protecting Sherlock.

“Ooh, you’ve got a fight in you, don’t you?” Moriarty asked, impressed. “I can see why he liked having you around. I wonder how he feels, now? People do get so sentimental over this sort of thing, you know.”

“I’ll kill you,” John said through gritted teeth, and Moriarty, completely unmoved, took a few steps forward, crouched down, and leaned up to John’s face. If John didn’t kill him, Sherlock definitely would.

“No you won’t,” he said quietly, his tone almost lyrical. “You talk big, but we both know you won’t. Because you’re ordinary. You’re all ordinary, except for me.”

* * *

Finally, the smile wore off his face, but was replaced with a calm determination that scared John to his core. After a few agonizing moments, Moriarty tore his eyes from John’s, looking up at Sebastian, and nodded.

He moved out of the way just in time for Sebastian Moran to shove John’s face into the ground.

As Sebastian rolled him over, letting his arms go free, John raised them, trying to find something to grab onto – something to hurt. He felt flesh – the cartilage of Sebastian’s nose, the hollows of his cheeks, his eyes – but nothing to claw into, nothing he could grab hold of. Sebastian focused on pinning John’s arms down to the ground, getting them under his knees, but John was determined. At one point he felt teeth and he hooked his fingers farther in and pulled as hard as he could, trying to rip Sebastian’s jaw from his skull in desperation. Then there was a sharp pain in his fingers and John yowled as his own blood splattered onto his face.

* * *

Obviously fed up with John’s attempts at freedom, Sebastian drove his fist into John’s face, and before John had time to react he was punched again, with Sebastian’s other fist.

Sherlock’s stomach was in knots, the overwhelming need to vomit swelling in his throat, and yet he still downed a gulp of whiskey. He couldn’t be watching this –  _how was he watching this?_

He glanced at Moriarty while he was on the screen, watching the scene play out before him. He was sneering at them – at John getting pummeled. Sherlock felt tears rolling down his face as Sebastian stood over John and brought his foot down into John’s stomach.

John was dying, and he couldn’t do a thing to help.

* * *

John couldn’t breathe. His hand hurt. His face hurt. His stomach felt like it had been flattened with the amount of force Sebastian used to stomp on him. His face and hands were covered in his own blood.

He rolled onto his side, curling into himself, and Sebastian kicked him again, sending the toe of his boot deep into John’s stomach. He kicked John a second time, and John made the attempt to get up. When he was on his hands and knees, Sebastian kicked him yet again, lifting John off the ground and sending him back onto his side, coughing up blood.

Then there was more pain in his face, and he felt something small and rock-hard in his mouth amongst all the blood.

Just as he found himself wishing that he had drowned in the river like he was going to a few days before, Jim Moriarty spoke.

“Stop; that’s enough.”

John coughed the rock-like thing – his tooth, he realized – out of his mouth, a sob escaping from him. He closed his eyes tightly and rolled onto his stomach, waiting for whatever was coming next. He choked out a sob again, and something rose up from his throat and escaped his mouth, and the smell and taste of bile filled his senses – John had just vomited. He heard Sebastian walking away from John’s body and mutter something unintelligible to Moriarty. He considered getting up – or at least trying to – when he heard someone coming back.

“Is that a knife in your pocket, John, or are you just happy to see me?” Jim Moriarty asked, as he felt someone grabbing at his ass, pulling his new knife out of his pocket. “Oh, it’s a knife. How disappointing.”

John found his mouth forming words. He thought he was begging – begging for mercy, begging for death, but as he listened closer to himself he found that he was only saying one word, repeating it over and over again:  _Sherlock._

He wasn’t begging for death; he was begging for relief.

Suddenly, Moriarty was at his ear.

“That’s enough of you, Lover Boy,” Moriarty said, and then something sharp pierced deep into his left shoulder, and John Watson cried out.

* * *

“ _NO!”_ Sherlock shouted as Moriarty stabbed John’s shoulder with his own knife.

But something was off. There wasn’t a cannon. John wasn’t dead. Moriarty was just saving him for later. Moriarty left the knife in John’s flesh, stood up straight, and approached Sebastian.

“Hello, my dear,” he said, smiling at the boy from District 2.

“Jim,” Sebastian replied calmly.

Sebastian pulled a knife similar to John’s out of his pocket, and put it in Moriarty’s hand.

Moriarty reached up and wrapped his free hand around the back of Sebastian’s neck. He then pulled his lips to his own, despite Sebastian’s mouth being decorated with John’s blood. After a few moments, they separated, a string of red saliva stretching and breaking between them, gross and somehow beautiful at the same time. Keeping his eyes locked on Sebastian’s, Moriarty pushed on the other boy’s shoulder, lowering him to his knees. They stared at each other for a few seconds more, and then Moriarty, still keeping his free hand on Sebastian’s shoulder, walked behind him and brought his knife up to his throat.

“Goodbye, Sebastian. It’s been fun.”

“Bye, Jim.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, Jim Moriarty sliced Sebastian Moran’s throat open, blood spurting everywhere as the two main arteries on his neck were ripped open by the knife’s blade.

There was silence as Sebastian fell to the ground, and then his cannon burst moments after.

“That...is love right there,” Claudius Templesmith said gently in a voice over as Moriarty stood over the body of the tribute he had just killed. “Sebastian Moran just laid down his life so Jim Moriarty can get closer to winning this year’s Hunger Games.”

“I’m almost regretting being such a fan of Johnlock after seeing this. ...Almost,” Caesar Flickerman added.

But that was not love. That was giving up on your own life. That was defeat.

Jim Moriarty took a tribute who had come into the Games fully prepared to win and bent him until he was so devoted to him that he’d willingly die so Moriarty could live. He thought of how quickly Molly Hooper had trusted him before she had run into John again, and realized that he seemed to have that effect on people.

And when people knew better than to trust him, he quickly showed his true self: the darker side, the one that considered everything with careful calculation and made sure that his victim would suffer more than they ever had before. But Sebastian – his death was quick; almost painless. Because he had seen Moriarty’s dark side – his true side – and didn’t try to fight him or leave – because, maybe, despite everything, he truly did like him. And maybe Moriarty liked him, too – at least enough to kill him quickly.

But none of that mattered, now, because Sebastian Moran was dead.

Now, it was just Moriarty and John.

After a few moments more, Jim looked up at John’s crippled body; it was shuddering as John cried into the ground from pain.

“And then, there were two.”


	31. The Grand Finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it's Sara! I'm back for this week (IT'S ANOTHER OFF WEEK I KNOW BUT NIQI'S GOING ON A TRIP WITH HER 'RENTS SO SHE CAN'T POST NEXT WEEK) because I'm at Niqi's again. XD So after this chapter there's gonna be no chapter next week (which is where this chapter should've been) and then no chapter the week after because it's an off week, and THEN, FINALLY, on June 18th, the next chapter will be posted by Niqi. The new-computer fund is going terribly as of right now - my hours got cut and my darling daddy dearest fucked with the bank so now we can't even pay our bills. SO THAT'S GREAT. Good news is: I have an interview for a full-time position next week so FINGERS CROSSED I CAN GET IT SO I CAN HELP MY MAMA PAY THE BILLS AND GET A NEW COMPUTER. So honestly I have no idea when I'll be back for good, but if you wanna talk to me outside of here for personal stuff (and so I won't get driven INSANE), my snapchat is saraherbie. :p  
> So, without further ado, Chapter 29....

“Staying alive...” Moriarty said, and John looked up to find he was speaking to him. “It’s so boring, isn’t it? Just...staying... This –” He gestured to the Arena.  _“This_  is where I live, where I  _truly_  live. Because people die all the time, Johnny boy; that’s what people  _do._  But how often does one get the opportunity to feel the rush of deciding who lives and who dies?” He crouched down in front of John. “That’s why I  _had_  to do this. I  _had_  to be in the Hunger Games, just once. Watching it could never be enough for me; I  _had_  to be a tribute.”

John, snot-nosed, bleeding, covered in his own vomit, and angry, was now on his hands and knees.

“But fate put me in the wrong place.”

John looked up, into Moriarty’s dark brown eyes, realizing for the first time that they were not as black as his heart. Moriarty looked at him expectantly, as if waiting for John to understand whatever he was saying. It was then everything clicked: There was only one place you could be to  _avoid_  being in the Hunger Games – one place fate could have possibly put him –

“You’re from the Capitol,” John whispered.

The sick grin reappeared on Moriarty’s face – the one they made John’s stomach turn and his blood run cold within himself –

“Bingo, Johnny boy,” he said, his voice now dripping with the accent the Capitol was known for.

* * *

Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman were in a state of panic, and Sherlock was freaking out right along with them. How could he not have  _known?!_ How could he have not seen it before?!

“Is this legal?” Claudius Templesmith asked Seneca Crane, who was contacted through video message as soon as the announcement was made.

“There’s nothing in the rules that says it isn’t,” Seneca replied, looking surprisingly clam.

Caesar just sat with his jaw dropped as far is it could go, looking between the cameras and Claudius.

“Seneca, what do you think should happen now?” Claudius asked. “Should Jim Moriarty be removed from the Games?”

“Not at this point; he’s made it too far to just be taken out, and he’s about to win so there’s really nothing we can do but watch.”

Sherlock grit is teeth together.

 _Come on, John,_ he thought desperately – pleading with John in his mind. _Just make it through this. Prove them all wrong._

* * *

“How –” John began to ask as the fingers on his left hand found something hard in the dirt; a small stone, about the size of his palm.

“How did I become a citizen of District One without anyone noticing? It was easy; all I needed was a few willing participants to let me in,” Moriarty replied, standing up and beginning to pace before John. “It took five years to put everything in place, but I knew it would take time. I knew I could be patient, and I was. Of course, I had to make a few sacrifices along the way, but all in the name of practice. It’s amazing how much evidence a simple house fire can cover up. They found eight bodies; my mother’s, my father’s, my siblings, and me. Only, it wasn’t me. See, we died during the Seventy-Second Hunger Games. A few of my willing participants were in charge of bringing the tributes’ bodies back to their Districts... One fifteen year old boy never made it back. I was long gone by the time the deaths were announced. And while a life was being created for me in District One, I lived in the woods just outside its borders. I spent a year out there. I couldn’t make my family’s death and my appearance too close together, you see. Compared to that, these nine days were a walk in the park. I just wanted to have some fun, Johnny boy. And, oh boy, I did.”

As Moriarty explained everything, John dug his nails into the ground, scratching the dirt away from the rock. Every movement caused almost unbearable pain to shoot down through his arm from the knife that was still in his muscles. He tried to keep a straight face, but really didn’t care if Moriarty noticed; at this point, he had nothing to lose.

* * *

Thanks to Moriarty’s story, the Capitol was able to track down just who Jim Moriarty was: just two years ago, he was Richard Brook.

Sherlock thought back to what Moriarty – Richard – had said:  _“He reminds me a bit of myself, Sherlock does.”_  So he saw the similarities between them, too. Their minds were both extraordinary, and they both found their lives pitifully boring; they both wanted something more than what they had. Richard had also said that he was born into the wrong place – the wrong life.

A thought passed Sherlock’s mind – one he never wanted to have again, but one that he knew that now that he had thought it, it would never leave: If  _he_  had been born in the Capitol, would he have become the monster that Richard Brook – Jim Moriarty – was?

* * *

“You’re insane,” John finally managed to say.

“Even so, I wouldn’t say I’m  _insane_ , just bored,” Moriarty said with a shrug.

The rock was almost free from the dirt – John needed to buy more time – just a little more time.

“Why me?” he asked.

“Hm?” Moriarty replied, standing in front of John and looking down at him, eyebrows raised.

“Why are you telling me all this – why did you save  _me_  for the end?” John asked. “You just said I’m ordinary and you obviously cared a lot more about Sebastian –”

“Sherlock,” Moriarty said, cutting John off.

* * *

Sherlock sat up straight at the sound of his name, confused.  _Him?_

Evidently, John was also confused.

“Sherlock?” he repeated.

“Yes, your little boyfriend from District Twelve? He made you noticeable the moment he tried to volunteer for you, and even more so when he decided to declare his love for you. I wanted to make him regret making you special, and I knew I had the means to do so.”

Sherlock felt a pain in his core.  _He_  had caused this, just by existing too close to John.

_Alone protects me._

_Alone protects John._

* * *

John thought about what Moriarty was saying for a moment.

“So you just...picked me? Because I stood out?”

“It wouldn’t be any fun just killing willy-nilly; I wanted to make a story, one that the Capitol could get all wrapped up nice and snug in. A story needs a hero, you see. And a hero needs a good, old fashioned villain. But then, I could see why Sherlock liked you so much – why the Capitol liked you so much. You’re different. I liked that. I liked  _you,”_  he said, and John’s stomach dropped. “To be honest I wish that we both could win, just so I could keep you around. But we both know that can’t happen. You can’t be allowed to continue – you just can’t. I wish you could; I wish these Games could just go on forever. But, unfortunately, they can’t. Everything will be back to normal, soon, go back to being  _ordinary...”_  he trailed off, looking around up and around the Arena again, taking it in. Then he looked back at John and shrugged. “Oh well. I’ll survive.”

Moriarty reached out, and for a moment John thought he had noticed him trying to free the rock from the dirt, but instead he pulled the knife out of John’s shoulder, twisting it as he went, just for the hell of it. John cried out in agony, lowering his head to the ground as he made the final push and closed his hand around the rock, even though he felt his blood pouring from the wound.

“It’s time to finish the Game, John, my boy. It’s time for the grand finale.”

* * *

Sherlock watched as Moriarty picked John up by the hood of his jacket with his free hand and began to drag him to the Cornucopia. John gasped, and Sherlock realized that, at the angle Moriarty had John in, he was choking him. John tried to stand up, but his crippled leg and throbbing body caused him to stumble back onto the ground.

“Let’s MOVE, Johnny boy!” Moriarty shouted as John struggled to breathe, pulling on John’s hood as if it were a leash.

John’s right arm flew up immediately to his throat, trying to get some space between his throat and his collar, and after a few moments of flailing helplessly, John’s left hand joined in. His face was turning red by the time Moriarty dragged him inside the horn and pushed him up against the hard, metal wall.

John groaned as Moriarty pulled him backwards, keeping one hand on the hood and wrapping the other arm around John’s front. They were facing directly into one of the Capitol’s cameras, and the broadcast adjusted itself so their faces filled the screen.

Moriarty rested his head on John’s shoulder, and Sherlock practically growled with rage.

“I thought I’d be nice to you, John; I’m going to let you say goodbye before I  _skin you alive...”_  he said as John struggled, trying to breathe. “I want you to look straight into that shiny little camera and tell your precious little Sherly-kins that you’re not coming home.”

Tears swelled in John’s eyes, and he closed them tightly in an effort to stop the tears from escaping. He didn’t succeed.

“SAY IT!” Moriarty bellowed into John’s ear, and, with a start, John opened his eyes and looked directly into the camera – directly into Sherlock’s eyes.

“G-goodbye, Sherlock. I’m sorry,” John said quickly, and then took a shaky breath. “I love you –”

* * *

As the last word was passing his lips Moriarty shoved his head into the metal wall once – twice – three times before tossing him onto the ground, just outside of the Cornucopia’s mouth.

“That’s a good boy,” Moriarty said as he stepped out with him, and before John could get to his feet Moriarty stepped on his chest. He leaned forward, basically crouching on top of John, and pressed the knife into the space between John's collar bones. John tried to struggle beneath him, but the beating from Sebastian and the throbbing in his head from his latest assault was taking its toll on him.

This was it.

“Now, I need you to do just one more teeny-tiny thing for me, John, and then you’re all done,” Moriarty said, sounding as if he was trying to soothe John.

He was going to die.

“I need you to say it for the cameras – say it for Sherlock – nice and pretty. Who won the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games?”

He had one chance to save himself – just one –

“…Y-You,” John said.

He had nothing to lose – if this didn’t work there was nothing he could do except die.

“Sorry,  _who?”_  Moriarty asked, leaning closer to John and cupping his hand around his ear. “Speak up, Johnny boy; so  _everyone_  can hear!”

 _Please God let me live,_  John thought desperately as his left hand closed around the stone in his jacket pocket and pulled it out.

“Me,” he said, bringing his hand up and hitting Moriarty as hard as he could in the head with the rock.

Blood began to ooze out of Moriarty’s scalp, and he looked down at John, shocked. John kicked his body into overdrive before Moriarty had the chance to kill him, hitting him again and again with the rock, arching his back to try to knock Moriarty off-balance and off of him.

After a few more hits Moriarty toppled over, and John rolled on top of him, straddling him as he brought the rock down on his stupid face over and over. It was only when he felt Moriarty try to stab him again with his own knife that he tried to take it back from Moriarty, dropping the rock to the ground and wrestling it out of his hands.

It was then, for the first time, that John killed a tribute on purpose – truly on purpose. He pushed the blade deep into Jim Moriarty’s lung and pulled it back out as he stood up.

He watched Moriarty struggle for breath, and for a fleeting moment he felt  _good_  looking down at the dying tribute. John blinked once, hard, trying to get the thought out of his head, gripping onto the knife as tightly as he could, just in case Moriarty got back up again.

But he didn’t. Instead, he laughed, causing John’s blood to run cold.

“You think you can get rid of  _me,_  Johnny boy?” Moriarty asked, grinning with teeth stained red from his own blood. “You’re not even close. I told you – we’re not that different, Sherlock and I. Really, I'm the lesser two evils; at least you know to hate me. Sherlock on the other hand..." he trailed off, and John tried to keep his trembling jaw still. Just when John thought he might've passed away mid-sentence, Moriarty spoke again, causing John to jump. "You're in trouble now, Johnny Boy. You’ll see."

Then he winked, smiling up at John, and then his features relaxed as he stopped breathing. John dropped the bloody knife to the ground.

Moments later the final cannon burst, and was immediately followed by the Capitol’s trumpets.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Claudius Templesmith’s voice shouted above him, addressing the audience back home. “I am pleased to present to you, the victor of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games, John Watson from District Twelve!”

John Watson had won the Hunger Games.

But, John couldn’t help but think, at what cost?


	32. Unsalvageable

“John Watson?”

A voice snapped John – victor of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games – out of his frozen state, and he found a Capitol Peacekeeper, donned in his white, face-obscuring uniform, at the end of a rope ladder. The hovercraft was here to take him away from this vicious place. John looked up at the man, and he extended his gloved hand for John to take.

“Come on, quickly.”

John gingerly raised his bloodstained hand and put it into the Peacekeeper’s white gloved one, and he led the rest of John’s body onto the ladder.

The Peacekeeper kept himself around John like a protective shell as they ascended, and John felt his body shuddering but could not hear the noises he was making. The Peacekeeper said nothing, and John knew it was because there was nothing to say. He tried to focus on the roar of the hovercraft as they found their way in.

Suddenly, everything John saw was blinding and white as he was surrounded by people. They did not have faces, only eyes.

Like an audience.

Like _the_ audience.

Like the Capitol –

The Capitol.

He had killed a Capitol citizen – he was going to be punished – killing him would only be merciful. These people – this audience – was here to make him suffer, and John knew it. The thought of Avoxes crossed his mind, and his mouth clamped shut, trying to wrestle himself out of the grip of the people surrounding him.

It was just one more fight, John realized – John verses these white faceless angels of worse-than-death. He just was going to lose this time, he decided as a syringe’s needle was jabbed into the side of his neck.

* * *

Sherlock sat on his sofa, staring into the screen, ignoring the celebration that was going on in the broadcast. Everything was gone – it was just him.

“ _Ladies and gentlemen! I am pleased to present to you, the victor of the Seventy-fourth Annual Hunger Games, John Watson from District Twelve!”_

John had won.

John Watson had won.

He was coming home.

He had no idea how long the phone had been ringing before it pierced through the bubble that was separating him from the rest of the world.

As if he were in a dream, he walked to the phone and picked it up, putting it to his ear.

“John –” he said in a broken voice, even though he knew full well that it was Mycroft at the other end of the line. He tried again. “John –” he heard himself shudder a gasp. Was he crying? He touched his cheeks and found a wetness that could only suggest that yes, he was crying. In fact, he wasn't just crying; he was sobbing into the phone.

“Yes, I know, Sherlock, I know, it's okay,” Mycroft said in a tone that only he could pull off: soothing and business-like simultaneously. “I need to listen to me; can you do that?”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut and bit his lip, trying to put himself together long enough for Mycroft to relay his message to him, and nodded. Just as he remembered that Mycroft had no way of knowing that Sherlock had indeed acknowledged his brother’s words, and he was trying to pluck up the courage to trust his voice, Mycroft went on, as if he had sensed Sherlock's efforts. “There is a train that should have just arrived at the City Hall; it’s for you.”

“Me?” he asked, finally able to not only speak but produce words that were not John’s name.

“Yes, Sherlock, you. They want the reunion to be live, so you need to get onto that train right now. You don’t need to pack anything; everything will be given to you once you arrive at the Capitol. I’ll be right there when you get off at the station, okay?”

Sherlock was in no state for the general public; he was buzzed at the very least from the gin he had drunk to deal with John’s potential death, and just barely operating from lack of sleep. Not to mention the fact that, despite his best efforts, he was still crying.

“John –” he started again, and discovered that apparently he still could not produce anything other than John’s name, after all.

“I know, I know!” Mycroft said, sounding as relieved as Sherlock felt. “John’s landing in the Capitol right now; I’m going to go make sure he’s all settled, and then I’m going to pick you up. I’ll see you soon,” he said, and before Sherlock could think of trying to reply, Mycroft had hung up.

Sherlock Holmes ran to the train.

* * *

When John next awoke, he was still surrounded by white, but he couldn’t hear the roar of the hovercraft anymore; he must’ve landed. The faceless people – surgeons and doctors, probably – were also gone. Panic swelled in his chest. They took his tongue –

He bit down on his tongue to find that no they hadn’t taken it. Just to ensure it was there, John continued to bite down on the flesh – bite until it bled – and then he heard a voice.

“John – John no don’t do that – John you’re okay.”

John’s eyes began to focus, and he found a face: Mycroft Holmes.

“Mycroft!” John gasped, spurting flecks of blood everywhere. He made the attempt to sit up, but found he was unable to lift himself from the bed – his torso and limbs were all strapped down. “Mycroft –?” he tried again as his heart raced.

“Shh shh shh,” Mycroft soothed as he put a wad of dry gauze into John’s mouth. He then pressed a few buttons on a remote control on a table next to John's bed as John fought to spit the gauze out, and he felt the bed moving him into an upwards position. When he was finally sitting up, he succeeded, only to be rewarded with having the now wet and bloody wad put back into his mouth. “John, it’s me, you’re safe; you’re alright. Give your tongue a moment to heal. Your IV contains a solution that’s used to heal your wounds in the shortest amount of time possible with minimal scarring.”

So that’s why tributes always looked so pretty after the Games, John thought, almost idly, until a sense of urgency found its way in.

If he had no scars he would have no reminders of what happened. If he had no reminders he wouldn’t have a real reason to believe the trauma he had suffered was real – that whatever he had suffered was _him_ and not just some boy who looked like him on the television screen.

John spat out the gauze again.

“Get it out,” he ordered, and Mycroft cocked his head, almost keeping his neutral expression.

“Pardon?”

“Get it out – I don’t want it – I want the scars –” he struggled with the restraints.

“I’m sorry, I can’t –” Mycroft started, but John cut in.

“ _Please,_  Mycroft!” he begged, his voice breaking, and, pursing his lips, Mycroft finally stopped the flow of one of the liquids into his arm.

“I would just take the needle out, but you need the Morphling and the nutrients right now,” Mycroft explained as he sat down in the chair at John’s bedside he had probably been occupying since before John had woken up.

“Morphling...” John murmured – it sounded familiar –

“Not enough to form an addiction; just enough to alleviate the pain,” Mycroft promised.

John’s tongue danced around in his mouth, touching all his teeth, trying to find the gap where his tooth was missing from Sebastian Moran’s punch to his face, but finding none.

“My tooth –”

“They replaced it and made it look as natural as all of your others. It’s made out of…” Mycroft looked up at the ceiling, as if trying to find the words there. “…something high-end; I’m sure it doesn’t matter to you –”

“I killed a Capitol citizen,” John murmured, panic setting in as he remembered what he did. He looked up at Mycroft. “I killed a Capitol citizen I –”

He stopped talking only when Mycroft put his hand up to quiet him.

“Richard Brook – Jim Moriarty –” Mycroft corrected himself upon seeing John’s confused expression. “– made his own decision to get himself into the Hunger Games. He obviously knew going in that he could’ve died. You were only doing what you needed to do to survive.”

“But –”

“He killed his family; he would have been viewed as a criminal anyway. Or, he should have been.” Upon deciding that John wasn’t going to reply, he went on. “The Capitol officials are telling everyone that Richard Brook was afflicted with some sort of mental disorder,” Mycroft informed him, sighing angrily.

John glared at Mycroft, his thoughts wrapping around what he had just heard.

“No, he wasn’t.”

“And I know that. We – all of us, even you – have mental disorders of some sort, and we don’t have the desire to kill anyone.”

“Me?” John asked, and Mycroft pursed his lips, trying to smile but looking more saddened by John’s question than anything.

“Life is about to get a lot more difficult for you, John,” he said. “I’ve been in your place – every victor has been in your place. If you need to talk about anything – anything at all – if you have any questions or need any help –”

“Philip.” It was only when Mycroft tilted his head to the side did John realize he had spoken aloud. “Philip Anderson. From Ten. How many times did I –”

“Just once,” Mycroft assured him. “The fog contained a hallucinogenic to cause tributes to see what they were afraid of. You were all drugged.” John looked around the room, mulling over the words, until Mycroft spoke again. “I will discuss anything you want to discuss with me, John. But right now, I need to tell you something important, so it doesn’t scare you later.”

John looked up at Mycroft. It was too late – he was already terrified.

“I need to tell you this now...there’s something that the doctors...couldn’t save,” Mycroft said carefully, watching John’s face.

“Couldn’t...save...” John repeated, but it felt like his voice was coming from far away.

Mycroft then leaned over and pulled the hospital blanket back, unveiling his right leg and –

A stump where his left foot and ankle should have been, amputated right in the middle of his lower leg – his tibia and fibula, he remembered  _now_  for some reason.

The dogs bit his ankle – it wasn’t that bad he was still walking – why was it gone – why could he still  _feel it_ like it was there?

His heart was thundering in his chest.

“Mycroft –”

“It’s alright, John – this happens more often than it doesn’t. You were fitted for a prosthetic while you were asleep and for this the physical therapy shouldn’t be that demanding. You’ll have a cane for a little while and it’ll take some getting used to but honestly I’ve seen far worse,” Mycroft tried to assure him, but John couldn’t take his eyes from the stump at the end of his leg, even when Mycroft covered it back up.

“I was walking,” John said, sounding more like a shell of himself than a person, still looking at his leg, or lack thereof. “I was able to walk.”

“The surgeons deemed the muscles and bone the dog tore through unsalvageable. The damage done  was irreversible. I’m sorry, John,” Mycroft said quietly, so solemnly John chest ached.

There were a few moments of silence, as John continued to stare at the space where his leg should have been, and then Mycroft spoke again.

“You’re going to get more rest tonight, then there’s the recap of the Games with Caesar and the crowning tomorrow, and then the victor’s final interview the next day, and then we’ll go home right after that.”

“Then the Victory Tour,” the ghost of John’s voice said quietly. “Then mentoring.” Tears stung his eyes, overwhelmed.

“I’ll handle the mentoring until you’re comfortable. It’s not that bad, really. And even so, that’s not for a while,” Mycroft said soothingly. “I’m going to turn your sleeping solution back on now,” he warned him, standing up and approaching his IV again, turning a dial attached to one of the bags of liquid.

A fresh wave of panic rushed through John as he could almost feel the influx of sleeping solution spreading throughout his body. He didn’t want to be alone again – not even for the few seconds before he went to sleep –

“Can you stay with me?” he asked, finally looking up at Mycroft. “At least until I fall asleep. Please.”

In response, Mycroft took his place back in his seat, sighed, and looked at the ceiling, as if searching for something. He spoke after a little more than a full minute of silence.

“Here’s something I’ve never told anyone: when I was younger, I used to think the hovercrafts created the clouds. I knew better by the time I was five, but it’s something I still think about from time to time. I also believed the Capitol was completely contained inside of the train, for a while, and it just traveled around the Districts. I learned better when I watched the Hunger Games for the first time. And there was a time I was convinced that if I could just jump the fence that surrounds District Twelve, I would be able to find a place that was better, that wasn't quite so cruel.”

“There isn’t,” John murmured as darkness overtook him.


	33. Crowned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello this is Sara! I just got back from vacation and I'm supremely under the weather (due to sun poisoning/a heat stroke!) right now, but I just wanted to say hi and that I hope you enjoy the chapter!

“As you know, you’re going to wear what you wore in the Arena when you meet Cinna and the others,” Mycroft said the next morning as he showed John how to fasten his prosthetic leg to John’s shrunken-sock covered residual limb. When John woke up that morning to meager portions delivered by an Avox, he found that Mycroft had not moved; he had fallen asleep in the chair, his head resting on his hand, looking as if he was in deep thought and had just closed his eyes. John had never seen Mycroft sleep before. “Will you be alright with that?”

“Yeah,” John nodded, and he supposed he sounded defensive, going by the way Mycroft glanced up at him in response.

“Some victors wouldn’t be. I know I avoided winter jackets almost completely the winter after my Games, so I thought I’d ask,” Mycroft said as he finished attaching John’s prosthetic.

John vaguely remembered that winter – the two days before Sherlock turned ten there was a brutal snow storm, leaving District Twelve in a bitter cold for at least a week afterward – and still Mycroft walked out in the snow in pants and a turtleneck sweater to get Sherlock's birthday cake from the bakery. He remembered Mycroft leaving for his Victory Tour just days after that in a heavy winter coat – he must have burned the thing as soon as the cameras were off of him…

John nodded again as he swung his legs over the side of the bed, touching both of his feet – real and false – to the floor. Mycroft handed John a cane, and when he took it, Mycroft didn’t let go. John looked up at him.

“It’s okay to be afraid, John,” Mycroft told him lowly when John met his eyes. “I, for one, am simply awed by your bravery.”

“I thought bravery was the kindest word for stupidity,” John reminded him in the largest amount of words he had strung together all morning, a ghost of a smirk appearing on his lips. Mycroft returned his grin.

“I’m not always right.”

John looked down at his feet or, more specifically, his new foot.

He was thankful that what was left of his limb was finally covered – he had spent most of breakfast just staring at the stump that was now his left leg. He had no idea it was even possible to feel naked without his leg, but now that his prosthetic was disguising his leg to make it look like it had once been, John felt a little bit better.

Luckily, the prosthetic wasn’t a pole or a large plastic curve he had to balance himself on; it was shaped as much like a leg and foot – like _his_ leg and foot – as possible. The thing was, though, it was designed more like a piece of a machine than a human leg; mostly white, with smaller black and silver parts. Looking at it now, John felt like a cyborg, and very different and very exposed as Mycroft looked at him.

“The surgeons installed sensors in your leg before closing your wound; the prosthetic can pick up the muscles inside of your leg and will react accordingly,” Mycroft said. “Still, it’s some getting used to, but it is the very best technology the Capitol has; I made sure of that, personally. Would you like me to help you get dressed?” he asked, picking up John’s folded clothes.

“No,” John said, maybe a little too forcefully, shaking his head. He would  _not_  be a cripple who people pitied. He won the Hunger Games for fucks sake – he could certainly survive putting on his own clothes by himself.

“Alright, then,” Mycroft said as he placed John’s clothes on the bed and raised his hands in surrender, and then clasped them together. “I’ve got to meet with Mrs. Hudson and the others before you do – it’s normally part of protocol that this will be the first time you see any of us, but I was able to pull some strings.”

John remembered the last time Mycroft used those words – in the catacombs – the stockyard – just before the Games had begun.

John did not want to think about the catacombs. He simply nodded and waited for Mycroft to get the hint.

When Mycroft left, John slowly stood up from his bed, and took his first steps with his new leg, almost losing his balance as he went. It felt weird – it felt so weird – he kept waiting to feel the floor underneath his left foot but he couldn't – he could only feel the soreness in his residual limb as he put pressure on it – but he had no choice than to get used to it – he had to – this was his life, now. He sighed and stripped himself of the stark-white hospital gown and got dressed into the carbon-copy of the clothes he had worn into the Arena. He caught his reflection in the shiny white wall, and froze.

He knew how Mycroft felt about being wary around  _his_  Arena outfit, now. It was almost like he was still there, in a way. It was as if he had never left – they just took him out for a little while.

John shook his head, breaking his thoughts. He was out of the Arena; he was in the Capitol. He only needed to wear his Arena clothes for a few minutes – just to walk down the hallway, reach Cinna, and get dressed into a nice suit or whatever he had planned for him and then go out for the recap. He forced a smile at his reflection.

He could survive this.

* * *

As the train drove through the Districts on its way to the Capitol, Sherlock watched on a large screen as John emerged from the hospital room. The first thing he noticed was the cane and the limp John carried with him – Caesar and Claudius had been talking about John's loss-of-limb but Sherlock hadn’t fully believed it until now.

That was fine though – better some of John came home alive than none of John at all.

Sherlock looked at the Peacekeeper that was guarding the door – making sure Sherlock wouldn’t go anywhere he wasn’t allowed to.

“How close are we to the Capitol?” he asked.

“We’re due to arrive tomorrow morning,” the man said. Out of pure habit, Sherlock’s eyes travelled over the man, deducing him.

Had a wife – three kids, though he was an absentee father – smoked as a teenager but not anymore, even though he still craved a cigarette every now and then – was a bully in school, became a Peacekeeper because he still gets off on being cruel to others –

“Don’t do that thing you do,” he warned. “Not to me.”

Sherlock met his eyes and grinned. For once, he decided not to show off, but that wouldn’t stop him from telling the truth:

“Too late.”

* * *

After John ate an actual meal (still in his Arena clothes, much to his despair), had a brief physical therapy session with a Capitol doctor, was showered and pampered by his prep team, and was dressed into a white and lilac suit by Cinna, he was then led to under Caesar Flickerman’s stage. Caesar, who was on the stage above, was introducing the night’s events: John had to watch the recap of the Hunger Games.

He could barely hold himself together being in the same clothes as he wore in the Arena; he had no idea what watching it all happen again right before his eyes would do to him.

The whole ordeal would be four hours long; John had watched it all happen before to victors who weren't him. The first hour consisted of introductions of the prep team, then the escort, then the stylist, the mentor (or mentors) of the District, and they would all talk about how it was working with the now-victor. Finally, at the end of the first hour, the victor themselves would take the stage. After that, they would all watch the recap of the Games together. They would all enter in the same fashion – rising up through a panel on the stage, so, naturally, the prep team, Mrs. Hudson, Cinna, and Mycroft were all with John under the stage.

As Mrs. Hudson and the team gushed about how exciting this was, John found his way to Mycroft and Cinna. He leaned on his cane, taking all of the pressure off of his prosthetic.

“Which is worse: the recap tonight or the interview tomorrow?” John asked, and Mycroft reached out to adjust John's tie. He was wearing his very best, as if his suit was also designed by Cinna. Mycroft’s suit, John couldn't help by notice, was black and silver and white – like John’s new prosthetic leg – and John knew that the choice in Mycroft’s clothes couldn't have been an accident.

“This is harder, but fortunately you have less to do,” Mycroft said. “I’ll be right behind you the whole time, don’t forget that. Don’t forget where you are.”

And he didn’t. He knew where he was when the prep team made the ascent, followed by Mrs. Hudson, Cinna, and then Mycroft. He knew where he was when he finally made the ascent, and was assaulted by the cheering crowd. He knew where he was as Caesar talked and made jokes and congratulated John on his win. But the moment the recap began, and the Hunger Games was presented before him on a giant screen, John Watson was lost.

* * *

Sherlock did not watch the recap, not really. He stayed focused on John’s reactions, which was in the top-right corner of the screen at all times. He knew that John was reliving the horrors of the past nine days; only the victors from the career Districts actually enjoyed watching the recap. He desperately wanted to help him, but he was on a train, miles and miles away.

So he watched John watch everything. The bloodbath, the career alliance, the Underdog alliance, the District 12 alliance, Molly Hooper being tricked into joining up with Moriarty, the fog, the mutts, each and every kill –

It occurred to Sherlock how new some of this was for John. He had no idea that it was Jeff Hope who killed Greg Lestrade, and it was the berry he had offered to John at first that killed him. He had no idea that it was Soo Lin Yao that had killed Sally Donovan, and how she made no plans to kill him. He had no idea that Sebastian Moran was the one who killed Mary Morstan. This was the first time he was seeing what was real and what wasn’t in the fog.

As they did every year, they played the finale in full. They showed the irises, John being led to the Cornucopia, the beating (which John flinched to quite a lot), Jim Moriarty making his speech about being Richard Brook, John saying goodbye to Sherlock, and then, finally, John killing Jim Moriarty.

* * *

After seeing the recap, John Watson did not come back. The rest of the night’s events were a complete blur. He did not remember being officially crowned victor by President Snow. He did not remember going to the President’s mansion for the Victory Banquet. All he really remembered was staying by Mycroft’s side the entire night. It was only when he woke up the next morning that he came back to the present: the Games were over. Now he just had one more thing to do: the final interview. Immediately after that, he could go home.

Back to his family.

Back to Sherlock.

* * *

When the train pulled into the Capitol, there was no crowd to greet Sherlock, no paparazzi. Only Mycroft stood, umbrella in hand despite the sunny day, at the station. As if they had it planned, the door Sherlock was to exit through stopped just before his brother. The Peacekeeper in charge of him that day led Sherlock out, and he was wrapped in Mycroft’s arms before he could get a word of greeting out.

He hugged his brother back, burying his face into his grey blazer. After a few moments, Mycroft pulled Sherlock off of him, holding his shoulders at arm’s length, assessing him.

“How is he?” Sherlock asked.

“He’s doing fine. You haven’t been sleeping, again.” Mycroft noted.

“Too anxious,” Sherlock admitted.

“I can only imagine,” Mycroft said, waved the Peacekeeper away, wrapped one of his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, and began to lead him to a taxi. “Are you ready to see John, brother dear?”

A wave of warmth flooded through Sherlock. He was going to see John tonight. He was going to see John  _tonight._

“I’ve never been more ready in my life.”

* * *

John found himself in front of a mirror in a suit, made out of different shades of violet.

“It’s for Sherlock,” Cinna said, and John nodded as he looked over himself. “We took some inspiration from the first interview.”

“I can tell,” he said. He basically looked like a human-sized iris.

“How do you feel about the interview?”

“I just want to get this over with,” John said.

“Well, you go home right after this. Do you think you can make it another hour or so?” Cinna asked with a grin.

“We’ll find out together, won’t we?” John replied as Cinna straightened his tie.

“Remember: they all love you; just be yourself.”

John was pretty sure they didn’t want to see him make his first few steps to becoming a shut-in, which was what he desperately wanted to do. He hated it all: the cameras, the lights, the people, the noise – he just wanted to sleep for a few days and not talk to anyone.

Backstage, just before the show, Caesar Flickerman met up with John before the Interview. He was just as eccentric off camera as he was on, congratulating him again as he shook his hand and brought him in for a hug.

“How are you doing, John?” he asked.

“Ask me after the interview,” John found himself saying, and Caesar laughed.

“Still overwhelmed?” he asked.

Overwhelmed – so that’s what they were calling it.

“A bit, yeah,” John admitted; Caesar had that way about him.

“Well just relax, dear boy – everyone  _loves_  you. We’re going to have a  _lovely_  time; it’s going to be great,” he said, and then he went off to the stage.

He made his introduction, talked a bit about the Games and the highlights of the last nine days (as if the audience hadn't just seen it the night before), and finally introduced John, once again, to the public.

“You’ve seen him, you adore him, his love story broke your heart and rebuilt it; he's the victor of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games, I give you,  _John Watson!”_

And then he too took the stage, and the crowd exploded into cheers, all waving and smiling up at him. John did not wave back to them as he slowly made his way across the stage, to where Caesar was sitting on a plush chair, with an empty love seat right next to it. Finding Mycroft in the mentors’ box,  John nodded in his direction, acknowledging him, and took his place on the side of the love seat closest to Caesar, leaning his cane up against the empty seat next to him, and Caesar spoke to him.

“First off, everyone’s been dying to know: How’s your leg?”

He looked down at his leg – his damned, stupid leg – and said the first thing that came to his mind.

“Well, it’s missing, so –” John began, and laughter trickled through the crowd. He then remembered he was on national television – he had to be likeable; little sentences wouldn’t cut it. “I’m getting better at figuring out the prosthetic, I figured out how to roll my ankle this morning –”

“Did you?! Let’s see!” Caesar exclaimed, and John, with much concentration, bent his prosthetic ankle in a few directions, and the crowd roared. “Very good, very good! Soon you won’t need that cane, anymore –”

“Don’t take it away from me, yet,” John insisted, and for a moment he was brought back to begging Molly Hooper not to take his medical kit. The crowd laughed again, and then he was back. “Really, though, it’s been fine; a decent trade between me and the...Arena, I think. It got my left leg, and I got the title of victor.”

* * *

Sherlock stood backstage of the interview, wringing his hands as John’s stylist, Cinna, applied the finishing touches to his make-up. He felt like he was having a whole new face painted onto him, even though Cinna assured him there wasn’t actually that much make up on him.

He was unmarried, but had two dogs to make up for the loneliness. He was caring, though; always wanted a little girl to care for. He knew more about something or other than he was letting on, but Sherlock couldn’t place his finger on what –

“Are you nervous to see him?” the stylist asked, breaking Sherlock’s concentration. He nodded, his freshly-washed curls bouncing on his head in ways he never knew they could. “Don’t be. I’ve seen the look in his eyes when you’re mentioned. He adores you, and he can’t wait to see you.” He took a step back, looking over Sherlock and his violet suit that seemed to be the exact opposite of John’s in where the colors were placed, and nodded to himself. “Go on, you’ll be called out any second.”

Sherlock hovered off stage with a man in a headset as he watched Caesar speak to John. He was about twenty feet from John Watson. He could see the light bounce off his hair, the shape of the side of his face – it was beautiful.  _He_  was beautiful.

* * *

“It has been  _quite_  a ride for you, John – even before you entered the Arena. Your best friend, the younger brother of your mentor, decided to tell you, here, in front everyone, that he loved you.”

“It was a shock, yeah,” John said, voice strangely hollow. But, he supposed, it was better for his voice to be hollow than to just break down in tears at the sound of Sherlock's name.

“How are you feeling, now? Are you excited to see him?” Caesar asked.

“Yeah,” he said, and by the look on Caesar’s face he knew he wasn’t excited enough. He tried again, really laying it in thick this time. “Yes, I’m very excited to see him, definitely. While I was in there – in the Arena – I’ve found that it’s true what they say, about distance making the heart grow fonder; I’ve fallen in love with him more and more every day. I can’t wait to see him again.”

* * *

It was then –  _then,_  of all times – that Sherlock remembered John’s parents, and the promise he had made to Mr. Watson.  _“As soon as those cameras stop rolling you’ve got to give that boy a choice. Ask him what he wants, and listen to his answer. If he wants you away from him, you stay the hell away.”_  The cameras were rolling – what John was saying could be possibly false – he could always deduce but he could also be blinded by what he wanted John to feel –

“What if I told you that you didn’t have to wait?” Caesar asked.

“What?” John asked, confused.

“John, we made a very special trip to District Twelve to pick up a very,  _very_  special person. And he is here in the studio right now.”

“No –”

“May I present, all the way from District 12, Mister Sherlock Holmes!”

The man with the headset patted Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You’re on,” he said, and Sherlock stepped onto the stage.

It was bright and the crowd was all but screaming at Sherlock’s appearance. As much as his very sudden, newly-discovered stage fright wanted him to run back off the stage, his legs led him forward, closer to John. Caesar pointed at Sherlock, and John finally turned around to face him.

Sherlock’s eyes met John’s, and then everything else melted away.


	34. Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyyyyyy it's meeeee okay so computer's up and running for now maybe idk man life is weird. BUT check this out: http://8tracks.com/sarawatson/hungerlock-sentiment-part-1#smart_id=dj:11745971 There now you can listen to things that I listen to sometimes.  
> Sorry in a weird mood planning a crack fic that will happen soon.  
> Bye~

John was able to take all of two steps before Sherlock had dashed across the stage and threw his arms around him, nearly toppling them both over. Sherlock clung to John for dear life, whispering his name over and over.

“Sherlock...Sherlock –” John whispered back, clutching onto him, cursing his need of a cane which kept him from hugging his friend with both arms. “ _Sherlock_ , oh my god –” Sherlock was really there. He was touching him, holding him. It was funny – John felt like he had been in a fog compared to now; everything seemed fuzzy and out of focus. He was still in the fog, but it was slightly clearer now that Sherlock was there.

Then – John would never know who initiated it, really – they kissed, and the crowd went into hysterics.

* * *

“ _As soon as those cameras stop rolling you’ve got to give that boy a choice –”_

Sherlock pulled away and looked at John. He seemed distracted, but the kiss felt well-received. But John still stood stiff in Sherlock’s arms.

“Hi,” Sherlock breathed, after a moment.

“Hi,” John replied, pulling him into another hug.

The crowd was going ballistic, and they’d probably be even happier the longer they continued, but someone had to stop John and Sherlock. That person, who stood between them and put his hands on their shoulders, was Caesar Flickerman. Despite Caesar’s interruption Sherlock held onto John's free hand with both hands.

* * *

“Boys, boys! There will be all the time in the world for that, later!” he exclaimed, leading them back to the loveseat. “Mister Holmes, I don’t believe we met, officially,” he said, taking Sherlock’s hand.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, shaking his hand.

“How does it feel, seeing each other again?” Caesar asked, holding his microphone out to John.

“Unbelievable,” John said quietly, and then remembered he was on camera. “Absolutely unbelievable.” He looked up at Sherlock, making a point to avoid his eyes. “I never thought I’d see this face, again.”

The crowd broke out into sounds of affection.

* * *

“And you, Sherlock?” Caesar asked.

“I...” he began, and then took a deep breath. “I’ve never been happier in my whole life.”

* * *

“And we are so happy to hear that. Now, I don’t want to take away from your reunion with Sherlock, but I’m sure I speak for everyone when I say that we would love to hear your thoughts about Richard Brook – that is, Jim Moriarty,” Caesar said, and John felt Sherlock’s hands tighten around his as he found himself nodding.

“Yeah – okay,” he said, and the crowd made some sort of noise – he wasn’t quite sure what – it was all beginning to fade away in that moment –

John squeezed onto Sherlock’s hands as he struggled to pay attention to Caesar.

“So, first off, let me just say, when we heard that Richard was from the Capitol, I nearly fell out of my seat.”

“I nearly died,” John said, his voice sounding like it was from the other side of a tunnel. The crowd laughed, though John did not remember making a joke, and Sherlock’s head found his shoulder for a moment before he sat up again.

“I’m sure you’ve heard, but in case you haven’t, we discovered that Richard Brook was mentally unstable. When people are suffering from mental illness, hurting in the way that he was, they hurt the people closest to them – just as Richard killed his family. Since he didn’t get the help the Capitol could have easily provided him with, he made the decision to become a tribute in the Hunger Games, which is...absolutely tragic. Knowing that, how do you feel about him, now?”

“I think...” John began as his eyes found Mycroft’s in the crowd. Mycroft quickly and remotely shook his head: he wanted him to stop talking, now.

But he didn’t – his brain’s commands weren’t finding their way to his mouth.

“I think…that there was no Richard Brook to begin with.” There was a chatter amongst the crowd, and John quickly covered his tracks. “I mean, of course Richard Brook existed, but I think, mentally, he was always Jim Moriarty. Of course, I’m not telling anyone how to think, but when he looked into my eyes, I didn’t see the hurting boy you’re telling me he was.” He thought about exactly what he had seen looking into Jim Moriarty’s eyes, and found himself speaking as he lost himself in the moment. “He had planned this out meticulously, spending years on it, with no purpose except just to prove that he could do it, and because he wanted to see the people around him suffer. That was Jim Moriarty – that’s who he really was, who he always was. Jim Moriarty and Richard Brook were the same person, and Jim Moriarty was real – as real as you or me – and I’m not calling him by any other name.”

The audience was silent for a moment, and John wondered if he had just completely screwed himself over. His hands were slowly numbing from how tightly Sherlock was holding onto him, as if he was afraid he was going to have to let him go again. But Mycroft wouldn’t let them take him away, surely – not here, at least.

“That is an interesting way to look at things,” Caesar said finally, slowly, choosing his words carefully. “And what about what he last said to you, before he passed? About Sherlock – what do you think about that?”

John thought many things about it – so many things that he tried  _not_  to think about it, but it was always still floating around in the back of his mind.

“ _You think you can get rid of_ me _, Johnny boy? You’re not even close. I told you – we’re not that different, Sherlock and I. Really, I'm the lesser two evils; at least you know to hate me, Sherlock on the other hand... You're in trouble now, Johnny Boy. You’ll see.”_

“John?” Sherlock’s voice pulled him back to reality.

“I – sorry, I – I don’t know, honestly. What he meant. What he was saying.” Did he sound as panicked as he felt every time he thought about it?

* * *

“What about you, Sherlock? How did you feel when you heard that?”

“Very confused,” Sherlock lied. He wasn’t confused – he had seen it, too.

“How so?”

“I don’t think that’s his call to make. You see, the only way Jim had to get to know me was through a letter that I had written to John. We may have some similarities, but doesn’t everyone between one another? Jim Moriarty doesn’t know me, but I know myself, and I know that I’m not like him,” Sherlock said, and realized too late that he had been referring to Moriarty in the present tense. But of course he was – he hadn't been able to stop thinking about Moriarty for days – he was still ever-present and very alive, if only in his own head.

He hoped no one else had noticed, but when he glanced into the crowd and saw the look on his brother's face, he knew that at least Mycroft had.

* * *

“John, tell us – right now, when you look at Sherlock, do you see the version of Richard Brook – the Jim Moriarty – you described?” Caesar asked.

John had been avoiding looking into Sherlock’s eyes for too long for this reason – he knew that he would see pieces of Jim Moriarty there, but at the same time he didn’t want to know for sure. But he looked at him, now – he looked up into the pale blue eyes he had been living to see but was too afraid to look at, now, and told Caesar what he wanted to believe.

“I don’t,” he said, and, to glorify the moment, Sherlock’s lips met his.

“Well, we’re just about out of time, but we are  _so_  happy that you and Sherlock have been reunited, and John, we can’t wait to check in on you during the Victory Tour this winter,” Caesar said with a wink, and shook John's hand once Sherlock had reluctantly let go of it, signed off, and then it was over.

John could finally go home.

* * *

Sherlock had no idea what John was thinking. He seemed terribly distracted, but he still held on to Sherlock’s hand, even when they were off the cameras and John didn’t have to fake it, anymore. Every time Sherlock let go of John’s hand, John grabbed onto his nearest hand again as soon as it was free. At any other time, this would’ve been proof enough, but since this was the Hunger Games, and since this was John Watson, Sherlock didn’t know exactly what John was feeling.

That night was a night of closeness for the group, Sherlock and John and Mycroft and even Mrs. Hudson, as they made the journey back to District 12. They ate and Mrs. Hudson insisted they watch the rerun of the final interview and Mycroft offered a toast to John and his victory. They socialized as far into the night as they could before turning in, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft carrying most of the conversation, but John always seemed like he wasn’t really there. Soon enough Sherlock and John found themselves alone, still holding hands, watching the world they were passing by. Sherlock had no idea how to open the conversation – any conversation, which was weird for them considering it had always been so easy to do before – so he just watched John looking out the window in silence and tried to organize the thoughts in his head.

After a while, John finally spoke.

“I never thought I’d leave that place,” he said quietly. “The Capitol, the Arena, doesn’t matter. For a while there I really thought I’d die trying. I don’t feel like I can get away fast enough, now.”

“Well, you’re out; you made it out,” Sherlock replied. “We can live a somewhat quiet life again, now.”

John shook his head.

“Everything is different now, Sherlock. I’m famous within the District, I’ll have to leave every year for mentoring. Not to mention how different  _I_  am – you probably understand that more than anyone, of course.” It was now John looked at him, and suddenly the words spilled out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop them.

“Your dad said I had to give you a choice, when the cameras stopped rolling. If you… If you wanted to be with me or not.” They stared at each other for a moment, and he continued. “So I’m giving you a choice: do you really like me? Do you want to be with me? If you don’t want to we can continue faking it for the cameras and then, I don't know, I’ll explain the situation to any girls you might like, and if you want me to stay away from you I will – I can see how it would be uncomfortable to be around me now that you know my feelings –”

“Of course I love you,” John replied, cutting Sherlock off, but it sounded more like he was stating a simple fact than declaring any actual feelings.

But, after everything that happened in the Arena, that was probably the best Sherlock was going to get.

Sherlock nodded to himself.

“Okay.”

* * *

They both ended up finding their way into John’s room that night. At first, it was just John alone in his room. The slight vibration of the train was enough to put John to sleep, but fear kept him awake, as if someone had painted the Arena and Jim Moriarty’s face on the insides of his eyelids. He was still struggling, tossing and turning, when the door opened about an hour later.

John bolted upright and jumped out of bed, ready to attack whoever was trying to get in, thankful that he hadn't removed his prosthetic to sleep, but then he found it was only Sherlock.

“You scared the shit out of me!” John gasped. “Learn to knock,” he muttered, sitting back on the bed.

“Sorry – I’m sorry. I didn’t know if you were asleep or not,” Sherlock whispered, standing in the doorway, as if he wasn’t sure where to go. “Did I wake you?” he asked, and John shook his head. “Can – can I come in? Please?”

“Come on,” John said after a moment, waving him in. Sherlock scurried into the room and closed the door behind him. “So, what? Were you trying to check on me? I’m still here,” he informed him as Sherlock turned around to face him.

“I just wanted to see if you were sleeping alright.”

“Well, I’m not; I haven’t  _been_  sleeping, unless someone puts me under. You caught me,” John said, shrugging.

“No, I know, I mean – are you okay?”

John scoffed.

“What am I – no, Sherlock. No, I'm not okay. I'm probably never going to be okay, again. What are you gonna do, now? You can’t fix this; you can’t fix _me_. There’s nothing anyone can do to fix what they did to me in there. You can’t fix the memories or the nightmares or what he told me in there –” He felt tears spill from his eyes – shit, he was crying – but he pressed on. “We're just going to have to accept it. Because it is what it is, and what it is, Sherlock, is shit. It's absolute shit.”

They stared at each other for a moment, John's chest heaving as he tried to glare Sherlock down through his tears.

Finally, Sherlock spoke.

“I know I can’t fix it,” he admitted quietly. “But whenever I was broken you never let me believe I was alone.” He sat down next to John.

* * *

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“I’m staying here,” Sherlock replied. “I know I can’t fix this, but we’re going to figure this out. Like we always have.” It was then John’s head found Sherlock’s shoulder, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, trying to keep him safe from the world that had already gotten into his head. “You see him in me, don’t you?” he asked, and John nodded, rubbing his head into Sherlock’s shoulder as he cried.

* * *

“I’m sorry –” John began, feeling stupid for doing this to them – regretting even coming back from the Games knowing now that this was what he was facing – a life of not really knowing his best friend, anymore –

“I do, too,” Sherlock said. “It’s okay –”

“It's not okay,” John whimpered.

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “But it is what it is.”


	35. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So, today's my birthday (I'm 23 now in case anyone was curious). So, as a gift from me to you (because that's how birthdays work, right?) I'm going to post the last two chapters of Sentiment today. Enjoy :D

“We’ve arrived in District Twelve,” Mycroft announced conversationally, peeking his head into the room where Sherlock and John were eating a very late breakfast.

“How close?” Sherlock asked.

“We’ll be stopping in about three minutes,” Mycroft replied, and with that he turned around and went back down the hall to his office, and Sherlock pushed a few half-full serving dishes in John’s direction.

“Eat,” he ordered, shoving another biscuit in his own mouth.

John sighed and rolled his eyes.

“I’ve eaten enough,” John insisted, trying to push his plate away from him.

“This is  _Capitol_  food; you won’t get anything like this for another six months. Mycroft knows – he’s got a whole cake in his room – RIGHT, MYCROFT?!” he called down the hall, and John jumped at the sudden volume.

There was a moment of silence as Mycroft decided not to say several less polite things.

“Correct,” he called back with a sigh.

“See? He knows. Eat a little more; the bacon’s really good,” Sherlock insisted, piling more food onto John’s plate.

John already felt like he was going to vomit his meal back up later, but he ate to keep Sherlock happy – perhaps this was Sherlock’s way of making sure John was generally ‘okay,’ even though he had no idea what ‘okay’ even meant, anymore.

They were both already showered and dressed and ready to get off the train. They had ended up falling asleep the night before; the first time John had fallen asleep without help since the Games ended. He felt significantly safer with Sherlock in his bedroom, and he was glad for that. When the morning came, though, John had sent Sherlock to his own room when he had to remove his socks and pants and expose the prosthetic; he wasn’t ready for other people to look at it yet. Or at him, though they were already doing loads of that already with the cameras following his every move.

The victor's return to their District would be televised, as it was every year. He remembered the last time a tribute from District 12 returned home as a victor; Sherlock had ran through the crowd, pushing and shoving people aside until he could leap into Mycroft’s arms just as he was stepping off the train.

And now there was him.

The train stopped, and John could hear the cheering crowd that was just outside. The people he had known forever – cheering for him.

“One more,” Sherlock begged, breaking John from his thoughts as he handed him another biscuit. With another roll of his eyes he ate the final biscuit as Mycroft emerged from his office, and Mrs. Hudson burst in from the other side of the car.

“It’s sh–”

“Time to get off the train,” Mycroft cut her off, looking her in the eyes from across the room, trying to communicate with her – telling her  _something –_ warning her –

John shuddered as he was hit with the realization.

It was show time.

One more show.

Mrs. Hudson crossed the distance between her and John, fussing about the crumbs he had left behind from breakfast – wondering if he had ever heard of a napkin – but he was paying more attention to Sherlock and Mycroft.

Mycroft had pulled Sherlock aside, keeping his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, and was whispering so quietly to him that John couldn’t hear.

* * *

“I  _told_  you –”

“I can’t just let him starve himself –” Sherlock whispered back through gritted teeth.

“Let. Him. Heal. His. Own. Way,” Mycroft whispered with finality.

“It’s rude to whisper,” John snapped, and the two brothers looked at him, and then down at the floor, embarrassed that they had gotten caught, as Mycroft let go of Sherlock’s shoulder.

* * *

“They’re all waiting for you, John!” Mrs. Hudson sang, dusting the final bit of crumbs off of John’s shirt. “Now, remember the three S’s: smile, smile, smile!”

John made a feeble attempt to curl the sides of his mouth upwards, and she took his face in her hands.

“We are all  _so_  proud. Everything’s going to change for you and your family; you’re on top of the world, now, John. Think about that.”

That made John feel even worse, but he made another attempt at smiling, and she apparently decided she wouldn’t get anything better. She began to lead him to the door, putting her arm around his shoulder.

“Come on, boys!” she called back to Sherlock and Mycroft, and they followed behind them.

She led them to the main door, guarded by Peacekeepers, and stood John at the forefront.

“I’m going to introduce you, and all you have to do is look handsome and smile when the Peacekeepers open the doors. Stand there for a few moments, wave perhaps. Some people from the Capitol will be there to take pictures, and then you’re all done.”

John nodded, knowing that he would never really be done, but it was nice that Mrs. Hudson thought that it was that simple.

“Great!” she said, leaving the car to make the announcement without giving the crowd a glimpse at John.

John looked back at Sherlock and Mycroft, who were hanging back, flanking him.

“Aren’t you coming?” John asked Sherlock.

“No, this is your moment,” he replied.

“But you got me here,” John said, and felt guilty as soon as he said it.

“ _He made you noticeable the moment he tried to volunteer for you, and even more so when he decided to declare his love for you.”_

He could see it in Sherlock’s face that he was also thinking of Jim Moriarty, and felt even worse.

“Go on, Sherlock,” Mycroft urged, lightly pushing Sherlock in John’s direction. At first he ended up on the side that John’s cane was occupying, so they made the awkward shuffle around each other so they could hold hands while they heard Mrs. Hudson outside.

“Citizens of District Twelve, may I present to you the victor of the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games: John Watson!”

The crowd roared and cameras flashed as the doors opened, revealing John, holding onto Sherlock’s hand. He actually found himself smiling as he looked down at everyone – people he had known since he was born or since  _they_  were born – and waved at them and the cameras that were so desperate for John’s attention.

He had gone through hell, but all that mattered in that moment was that he had returned – he was actually back in District 12. He was _home._

Sherlock, possibly feeling John’s newfound happiness, raised their two held hands up into the air, above their heads.

For the first time since becoming the victor of the Hunger Games, John felt like he had actually won.

And then, as Sherlock was lowering their arms, he found a redheaded girl near the back of the crowd, her blonde mother and brunette father standing with her. There they were – his family.

His grip relaxed on Sherlock’s hand – letting go completely if Sherlock had allowed him to, but Sherlock held on. That didn’t matter – better for the cameras, anyway. He hadn’t encountered stairs since he lost his leg, but he maneuvered his way down to ground level with Sherlock’s help. As soon as he had overcome the obstacle, he walked straight into the crowd, and it parted for him.

* * *

John practically dragged Sherlock through the cheering crowd, with Mycroft following close behind, looking as self-assured as ever. Only Sherlock could tell that he was probably following out of a lack of knowing where else to go, seeing as he had never had a victor to look after before. People reached out and touched John as he went through the crowd, but it was all supportive: pats on the back, comforting grips on the shoulder that were released in the next moment, ruffles of his hair. It wasn’t a need to touch someone famous; it was the desire to show that they were glad that he was home. Some people even reached out to touch Sherlock, which he found strange, yet he found himself smiling all the same.

As soon as Sherlock and John could see John’s family, Sherlock let go of John’s hand and let him close the distance between them alone.

Mycroft and Sherlock stood together as the Watson family was reunited; John’s mother, father, and sister enveloping John in a hug and whispering their hellos and sentiments as the cameras flashed around them.

“Look at them,” Sherlock murmured to his brother, and Mycroft leaned toward him to better hear him. “They care so much.” He looked up at Mycroft, tearing his eyes away from John for the first time since they got off the train. “Why do we always break the rules we create for ourselves?”

“Hm?”

“‘Caring is not an advantage’ –” Sherlock mimicked in a higher-pitched voice. “You care; you’ve always cared. About John – about me.”

“I said caring is not an advantage, not that I _don’t care._ Sometimes caring is worth the risk.”

It was then John turned toward them, and Mycroft straightened up. John waved them forward, and so they joined the group, and John’s family hugged each Holmes brother as they approached them.

Mr. Watson shook Sherlock’s hand, and Sherlock knew his eyes were asking the question.  _Did you ask? What did he say?_  Sherlock nodded in response, and Mr. Watson brought him in for a hug. Mrs. Watson was the next person to find him.

“Thank you for taking care of our son,” she whispered in Sherlock’s ear, squeezing him tightly.

“ _He made you noticeable the moment he tried to volunteer for you, and even more so when he decided to declare his love for you. I wanted to make him regret making you special, and I knew I had the means to do so.”_

In that moment, Sherlock didn’t regret a goddamned thing.

As soon as Mrs. Watson let go of Sherlock, Mycroft turned to John’s parents.

“May I have a word with the both of you for a moment?” he asked, and they went off to the side so Mycroft could tell them exactly what he had told Sherlock the first moment they were alone:  _“The Hunger Games has changed John. He may not seem like himself. There will be days when he doesn’t eat, nights when he doesn’t sleep. Your John is still there, I can assure you. It just may not be entirely apparent, at the moment.”_

The crowd of members from District 12 then began to surround John, finally seizing their time to welcome him home. At first it was everyone at once, which obviously overwhelmed John, so Harry decided she would facilitate the crowd and exclaimed “Okay, give him some breathing room! Only one family at a time can see the victor!” Then, group by group, neighbors and students from their school hugged him and shook his hand, and Sherlock was surprised that after everything John still knew everyone’s names. He wore a tired smile, a smile that was genuine but couldn't quite reach his eyes.. Sherlock admired his will to soldier on, though – to speak to everyone no matter how badly it drained him.

“So, you went to the Capitol?” Harry asked from beside Sherlock, distracting him from John, but he looked down to find that she was watching John too, her arms crossed.

“As soon as Mycroft told me there was a train arriving for me to bring me to John I bolted –”

Harry shrugged in reply.

“It's fine, I was just a little concerned when your front door was open and you weren't inside your house.”

“I should've left you a note.”

Harry smirked.

“Nah, its fine; I would've ditched you too, if it were reversed.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Good to know.”

At one point, a woman and her husband approached John, and with the way the atmosphere changed everyone was aware that it was Mary Morstan’s parents.

After staring at each other for a moment, John spoke.

“I am so sorry,” he said quietly, and they nodded solemnly.

“We don’t blame you,” Mrs. Morstan replied.

“We just wanted to make that clear. And to congratulate you on your winning,” Mr. Morstan said, shaking John’s hand. “Thank you for being kind to our daughter, and helping when you could.”

It was obvious that John didn’t know how to reply, so Mr. and Mrs. Watson took them aside. Sherlock gripped John’s hand as the next family approached, trying to send him a feeling of serenity through the touch, but the smile John wore seemed all the more tired.

* * *

It was nearing sunset by the time the crowd had finally dispersed, and John was basically leaning into Sherlock when a fairly large group of Peacekeepers approached them. Surprisingly, they spoke to John’s father, requesting that he show them the way to their house. Now that John was a victor, he was to live in the Victor’s Village with Sherlock and Mycroft – right next door.

Mr. and Mrs. Watson led the Peacekeepers to their home, to move their belongings from the house to the mansion, but John, Sherlock, Harry, and Mycroft walked directly to John’s new home. They sat on the porch, and Harry and Sherlock filled John and Mycroft in on all the things they had missed while they were gone.

They began with the important things, like Harry coming out and her break up with Clara, but soon they went into trivial things, like the woman who lived down the street who had finally had her baby, the old man who had passed away, and if anyone from their school was dating anyone new. After a little while, John’s parents joined them on the porch, and they talked about different things, like funny stories from John’s childhood, and how glad they were he was back, as the Peacekeepers moved them in, turning the Victor’s Village’s population from 2 to 6. The whole time, John rested on Sherlock’s chest, simply watching his three greatest friends in the world and his parents converse, drifting in and out of sleep. He was so tired, and he felt so removed from them all even as they sat right beside him. His hand found Sherlock’s, and their fingers intertwined as Sherlock kissed John’s head.

“Welcome home,” Sherlock whispered into John’s hair, and John smiled.

It was like he had said to Sherlock the night before: everything was different, now, and John was probably the most different of them all. But as long as there was a lot more of this, and a lot less of the Hunger Games, then maybe, just maybe, John would be okay with the changes.

Maybe, just maybe, he'd be okay, someday.

But for now, he rested in Sherlock's arms.

John Watson was home.


	36. Together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This is a special Sara's Birthday Double Posting, so if you haven't read the previous chapter you totally should okay I love you bye <3

John was crawling. His prosthetic wasn’t attached to his leg, and it was nowhere to be found. Crawling was less humiliating than trying to travel exclusively by hopping on one leg. He had no idea where he was – he was surrounded by a fog so thick he could barely see his hands before him.

He thought he was alone, until he heard a voice echoing all around him.

“ _I owe you a show.”_

No – it couldn’t be –

“ _I owe you all a show.”_

Moriarty was dead – he couldn’t –

But then someone was whispering in his ear:

“ _It’s show time, Johnny boy.”_

At Jim Moriarty’s words, he stabbed John’s shoulder, and John cried out in pain. When he opened his eyes, he discovered twenty-two children emerging from the fog. Greg Lestrade – Molly Hooper – the careers – Mary Morstan – everyone – all armed with swords and knives and whips – all staring at him.

“Sherlock – _Sherlock!”_ John screamed.

“ _I’m going to make him regret making you special.”_

John’s eyes flew open as he sat up, still shouting for Sherlock. Two strong arms wrapped themselves around John’s chest, and he fought for release.

“Sherlock! SHERLOCK –”

“It’s me, it’s me! John!” the person attached to the arms said, holding John as he struggled. “It’s me it’s Sherlock you’re okay!” John’s body somehow managed to stop moving without John’s brain telling it to while Sherlock spoke. “You’re in District Twelve – you’re home, I’m here, you’re alright.”

It was then the door opened, and John’s mother and Harry appeared in the doorway.

“What’s wrong?”

“What happened?”

John’s heart raced as he turned to realize that Sherlock was right – it was really him. He was in District Twelve.

“Sorry – nightmare –” John murmured, voice hoarse as Sherlock let go of him.

“He’s okay, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock said. “Just a nightmare. We’ll be down in a few minutes.”

And with that, John’s mother and sister were gone, leaving Sherlock and John alone again – in John’s room, John was figuring out.

“Mycroft has them too, sometimes – the nightmares,” Sherlock said quietly. “He doesn’t tell me, of course; I can tell from the circles under his eyes. He had the bulk of them just after he was in the Games, too.”

“He probably didn’t scream bloody murder though, did he?” John asked, shame painting his features a dark shade of red.

Sherlock crawled around John to face him. When John tried to look away, Sherlock placed his hand on his cheek, and John looked up to find that Sherlock’s face was curious, as if wondering if the simple touch was okay. John leaned into his hand, to tell him that it was.

“It’s okay, John, it really is. It’s all fine. We’ll figure things out together. We’ll take it one day at a time – one minute at a time, if we have to.” Sherlock’s lips pressed against John’s for a moment.

They looked each other in the eye for what seemed like forever – the longest amount of time John had been able to look Sherlock in the eye at one time since returning from the Arena. For right now, he did not see Moriarty in Sherlock’s eyes – he only saw Sherlock. Sherlock then proceeded to back away, letting go of John’s face and getting off the bed, talking as he went.

“Your mom is probably definitely making breakfast, so we should get –”

“Wait.”

Sherlock turned around to face John, even though John had spoken so quietly he was sure Sherlock hadn’t heard him.

“Yeah?”

John opened his mouth and found that he, overcome with emotion, couldn’t speak. Not wanting to waste another moment, he pushed himself out of bed and – walking for the first time without his cane – crossed the room, walked right up to Sherlock, and kissed him.

He put as much of what he was feeling into the kiss as he could – the fear he never really stopped experiencing, the uncertainty that had made a home in his heart, but also the happiness and love that he now had rushing through his veins, happy he was home, safe within Sherlock’s proximity. It was an urgent kiss, but as Sherlock recovered from the shock of suddenly being made out with, the kiss turned passionate.

When they finally separated, John looked up at Sherlock.

“I want to show you something,” he said quietly, and sat back down on the bed behind him.

“John –?” Sherlock began, and then John began to roll up his left pants leg. “Oh, John –” he began, but John knew that if he didn’t do it now, he wouldn’t be able to pluck up the courage again for a long while.

“No,” he cut Sherlock off, pulling off his sock, completely exposing his prosthetic leg. “We’re doing this now.” He took off the prosthetic and his shrinker sock, revealing his residual limb.

He looked up at Sherlock, who was staring between him and his missing leg.

“Tell me about this,” John ordered, gesturing.

“It’s your leg,” Sherlock replied smoothly. “The Games took it from you.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” John asked.

“It’s the brain that counts, John. Everything else is just transport. It doesn’t bother me at all,” Sherlock assured him.

“But I’m going to slow you down, at least for a while,” John said.

“That’s fine,” Sherlock replied, and passed John his cane. “We can afford to slow down. I'm confident you’ll keep up where it matters, anyway. Even with the nightmares and flashbacks.”

“You’re sure?” John asked, and it was then, looking up at Sherlock, he saw how truly hurt he was. Not hurt because of anything even close to what John was going through, but hurt because he wanted to help John so much, but knew that he couldn’t.

“One hundred percent,” Sherlock promised.

John fastened his prosthetic back onto his leg, and took his cane from Sherlock.

This was them. Taking things one minute – one second – at a time.

* * *

All the Watsons (and Sherlock) were in the kitchen, and breakfast was just being served when there was a knock on the door.

“Can’t they leave him alone for three seconds?” Mrs. Watson sighed as Mr. Watson went to answer the door.

“People from the Capitol have been here all morning,” Harry filled Sherlock and John in.

“Do they know I’m here?” Sherlock asked.

“We don’t think so, but mom says it’ll ‘reflect badly’ on you guys if they do,” Harry said, using finger quotes, and Mrs. Watson narrowed her eyes at her daughter as she placed John and Sherlock’s plates before them.

“What?” Sherlock asked, glancing back and forth between Harry and her mother as she went back to the counter. “How’s that? They love us –”

“Sherlock,” John said, and Sherlock met his eyes.

“What?” he asked, but then he realized what was going on: what someone sleeping over their significant other’s house could possibly imply.  _“Oh.”_  Feeling stupid, he quickly started eating.

“And _finally_ the genius understands what has never been understood before!” Harry exclaimed. “And to think all that was needed was a significant look from _John_...”

Sherlock not-so-discreetly flipped her off, and she blew a kiss to him in return as they heard Mr. Watson’s voice from the living room, growing louder as he got closer:

“I don’t see why they can’t give him some peace – he  _just_ got home –” For a moment, Sherlock was sure he was speaking to his wife until he heard another voice.

“I’ll see about them if John wishes not to say anything, Mr. Watson,” Mycroft Holmes said as they crossed the threshold into the kitchen – his umbrella in hand, per usual. “Good morning, everyone.”

“Morning, Mycroft,” Sherlock, John, and Harry all said as Mrs. Watson began to make a fuss as mothers always do when there were guests.

“Mycroft, dear! How are you? Come, join us; you must be hungry –” she said, hugging him and going to fetch him a plate from the cupboard.

“I don’t think you’ve made enough for him to join us,” Sherlock muttered, and for the first time since the Games ended he heard John snickering – a sound that, once halfway-average, now sounded like a miracle to Sherlock's ears. He glanced over at John to find him hiding his smile by filling his face with food, and then looked up at Mycroft’s pursed-lipped smile that Sherlock knew all too well: Mycroft was not amused.

But he didn’t care. John had laughed.

“I’m glad to see you didn’t miss me  _too_  much; I was beginning to worry,” Mycroft said, and then addressed Mrs. Watson. “I’ve already ate, thank you. I was just here to see how John was doing.”

John’s parents exchanged glances with one another, unsure of what to say. John kept his eyes on his plate, obviously embarrassed, which was the only thing that kept Sherlock from speaking. Harry was the one to finally announce it:

“He had a nightmare, but other than that he’s okay.”

Mycroft nodded.

“That’s good to hear, thank you Harriet. John.” John looked up at him, face still vaguely pink. “I’m sure you’ve heard about the paparazzi outside. Do you have anything to say to them?”

“No,” John said, and Mycroft nodded.

“I’ll talk to them; see if they can give us all a break. I make no promises, of course.”

“We appreciate it so much, Mycroft,” Mrs. Watson said. “Are you sure you can’t stay?” she asked, noticing Mycroft had not moved from his place in front of the doorway, despite everyone else sitting and eating.

“I’m to see Mrs. Hudson off, but I just thought I’d check in with all of you before doing so. It’s good to have actual neighbors, again,” he mused. “Anyways, I’ll see you all later, I assume. Good morning.”

“Bye, Mycroft,” the Watsons and Sherlock all said as he turned around and left. When the front door closed, Sherlock looked at John.

“That’s his nice way of saying it’s really weird for him,” he informed him. “And it _is_ really weird to have someone living next door to us again. Couldn’t ask for better neighbors, though.”

“It must’ve been strange for you living all by yourselves for the past eight years,” John’s mother noted.

“Not really,” Sherlock said, paying more attention to finishing his meal than looking at Mrs. Watson. “We’ve always had John, and the rest of you, of course.”

It was then John pushed his half-filled plate forward.

“I’m done,” he said. “Could Sherlock and I go for a walk? I need some air.”

Sherlock looked at John, and he could tell immediately what was wrong: what once seemed like a normal conversation was suddenly too much for John.

“But your leg, dear –”

“Damn my leg!” John shouted, and then, after a moment of staring petrified at his family, he stood up and made his way to the bathroom.

The Watsons looked at Sherlock.

“He doesn’t mean it; he’s still trying to adjust,” Sherlock said quietly. “I’ll make sure he takes lots of breaks,” he assured Mrs. Watson.

“Stay with him, won’t you?” she asked.

“He won’t leave my sight,” Sherlock promised, and started to leave the kitchen.

“Sherlock?” he heard someone call after him, and he turned around, one foot out of the room.

It was John’s father. He had stood up from his chair, as if ready to chase after Sherlock if needed.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. For before. You’re great for him,” he said as the bathroom door opened and John began to make the trek from the bathroom to the front door.

Sherlock glanced behind him in John’s direction, and then, having no idea what to say to Mr. Watson, looked back.

“No problem,” he said, and got to John in time to open the door for him.

* * *

Outside, there were no cameras in sight – no members of the Capitol. Mycroft must’ve been able to get rid of them, after all.

John and Sherlock did not speak until they had reached the entrance of the Victor’s Village. It was John who broke the silence.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine –” Sherlock began, but John stopped walking, and so Sherlock stopped, as well.

“No it’s not. If it’s too quiet I zone out and remember and if it’s too loud I zone out and remember – no matter what I do I’m lost unless I’m  _doing_  something and I can’t even do that with this  _damn_  leg! And the moment I forget – the  _moment_  phantom limb sets in and I think I’m actually normal for two seconds someone’s there to remind me that it’s not there, and everything starts again!” He felt like he was yelling this, but by the way Sherlock leaned closer to him he knew he was whispering through gritted teeth. “I’m... _lost...”_  he whispered, and Sherlock shook his head, touching his shoulder.

“No, you’re right here. You’re home, and you’re with me. You will never be truly lost.” He then tried to pull John out of the Victor’s Village. “Come on.”

John shook his head.

“I have to go apologize to –”

“You can do that later, you’re coming with me now,” Sherlock said, and took John’s free hand in his.

It was late in the morning; nearly everyone was awake and going along with their day, John noticed. He and Sherlock walked directly in the middle of the street – where cars would be driving if District 12 had any that went on the dirt roads and didn’t just go between the mines and the train station. There weren’t that many people out and about, but everyone they passed seemed to do a double take – they glanced over him like they would any other day, but then  _stared,_  for they realized that they were in the presence of the newest victor of the Hunger Games.

John kept his head down, avoiding everyone’s eyes, and then he realized – much to his humiliation – that both he and Sherlock were still in their night dressings. Well, John had at least grabbed his shoes before leaving – Sherlock was barefoot, in sweatpants and a blue robe over an inside-out grey t-shirt to match John’s pajamas and red robe.

“Sherlock, we’re not even dressed –” John began to argue, but Sherlock spoke over him.

“You don’t have your cane,” Sherlock informed him, and John stopped in his tracks.

“What?”

“Look –” Sherlock said, gesturing, and indeed, John’s cane was missing. His hand that should’ve been holding his cane was occupied with his fork – his fucking fork – from breakfast. He had left the cane at home. And yet, he was walking. He had walked all through District 12, all by himself. It wasn’t his regular stride, but he wasn’t limping as terribly as he was before, either.

“I’m – I’m walking!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Sherlock.

“Now let’s see if you can run,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

Sherlock suddenly broke out into a jog, running down the street.

“Hey!” John shouted, but Sherlock did not break stride.

“Let’s go!” he called back, and John felt his legs’ desire to bolt after him.

He looked down at his legs, and tried to control his prosthetic – he had never had to think this hard about  _running_  before –

It took a few seconds, and then John was able to go from a slightly faster walk to a jog like Sherlock’s, but then he looked up to find Sherlock was going even faster now.

“I’m coming!” John shouted, taking off after him, only focusing on the blue robe billowing out from behind his best friend – boyfriend? – the person he loved above anyone else.

And then – it was like they were kids, again; when they raced down the dirt roads of District 12, chasing each other – when fear was not a word in their vocabulary. He suddenly knew the route they were on – they were going to the outskirts, to jump the fence. A laugh escaped John’s mouth, and it was followed by another one. Sherlock looked behind him, beaming back at John, and John found himself grinning back.

Sherlock reached the fence first, maneuvered his way through it, and then waited for John to do the same. It only took a few moments longer than it normally would, and then they were back to running, down the hill and into the woods they knew like the back of their hands.

Phantom limb had set in again, and it was almost as if John had never been in the Hunger Games at all. In the back of his mind he knew that wasn’t the case; he had been there and he had changed as a person and the world in his mind was darker now – broken rubble of who he used to be –

But he could forget about that, just for a moment, when it was just him and Sherlock Holmes, running through the only part of Panem that was for the two of them, exclusively.

When they were deep into the woods, Sherlock finally stopped. John felt like he could have run forever, but he forced himself to stop as well, and when he did, he and Sherlock stood there, staring at each other, as reality washed over them once more.

“How do you feel?” Sherlock asked.

John took a moment to think about it. John Watson’s world had crumbled around him – destroyed his mind and took his leg – but as long as he had Sherlock Holmes, he thought – as long as they were together – he might be okay someday – actually okay, not the definition he was trying to make for himself now.

He smiled at Sherlock, and gave him his answer:

“Brilliant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's it!  
> Unfortunately, I'm not quite finished with Sentiment's sequel, Constantly, but once I am I'll start posting that (Possibly in January? I dunno). So while I'll be back then, you guys can message me whenever for updates or whatever (my snapchat and kik are posted on my profile page). Also please check out my 8tracks, because I'll be posting a bunch of playlists about the hungerlock universe within the coming weeks: http://8tracks.com/sarawatson  
> I hope you guys liked this story, and I'll be back when I can be. :) <3

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters will be posted every other Saturday.


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